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COIYRIGHT DEPOSir. 




"I s'pose some people like sich thingjs, 

I'd ruther be whar catbird sings." Page 30. 



POMES OVTHE PEEPUL 



BY A SYNDICATE 

OF 

THE AMALGAMATED DI'LECT 
FORGERS' UNION 



"Si je ne suis pas un Juvenal, L'age, aa moins, me donne 
I'occasion d'en etre." 

"Blindfold the ox and he will patiently turn the mill ali day.' 



ILLUSTRATED BY WILL B. JOHNSTONE 



CHICAGO 

T. S. DENISON, Publisher 

163 Randolph Street 



^^^^ 



SEP 12 1904 

OtASS O:- XXo. Na 

f 3 ^> 6/ 

COPY B 



Copyright, 1904, 
By T. S. Denison 



RULES GOVERNING THE AMALGAMATED 
DFLECT FORGERS' UNION. 



1. Five hours shall constitute a day's labor. Ex- 
tra hours one and a half prices, and any member 
accepting ''growler" in lieu of extra pay shall be 
fined fifty cents. 

2. A line is a line, regardless of length, whether 
it be one word in a ''skiperelle'' or a full sixteen- 
syllable line. 

3. Poems containing 40 per cent commas, one 
and a half prices. "Uncle Josh" and "Ol' Ma's'r" 
poems come under this rule. 

4. Rondeaus, Villanelles, Sauterelles and all 
Skiperelles strictly time work by the scale per hour. 

5. ''Gun wads," that is, lines injected merely to 
"throw" a rhyme, shall be reckoned in measuring. 

6. "Bobs," or two-liners, to end magazine pages, 
two and a half prices, and no "Bob" shall be run 
as a serial. 

7. "Pipes" are classed as "timely" and are 
strictly cash, whether the pipe dream be the poet's 
own or to order. 

8. The Union discourages "foraging." For ex- 
ample, the poet on the "Kinchin lay" should not 
attempt "foozelly^' verse. 

9. If an editor use a ms. as an ash receiver and 
burn holes in it, or allow his stenographer to stick 
the sheets together with chewing gum, or scrawl 
large figures with an indelible pencil on face of ms,, 
his conduct shall be deemed an acceptance. The 



4 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Union will support all members insisting on this 
rule. 

ID. An editor holding a ms. longer than three 
years without making a report shall be placed on 
the blacklist. 

11. ''Special Poems" (Easter, Christmas, etc.) 
shall be printed within fifteen years of acceptance ; 
otherwise the ms. reverts to the author ''without 
prejudice.'' 

12. Editors must make a deposit on all orders. 
No exception is to be made in favor of the editor 
who says he is sitting up nights looking for new 
writers. 

13. Contributions to ''your esteemed journar' 
are positively prohibited. 'Tlunkety plunk'* and 
"Ole Homestid" verse may, however, be excepted 
in applying this rule. 

14. No member of the Union shall do "stunts'' 
for his dinner. Scale price shall be charged; nor 
shall he be expected to "do" more than fourteen 
encores at scale price. "Stunts" known to the 
trade as "dippoos" are to be discouraged, but "Joe 
Millers" are always "good stock." 

15. The Union will heartily co-operate with 
"The Short Story Writers' Gesellschaft" and the 
"Space Writers' Lager Verein" in their efforts to 
render the reading of our noble tongue a genuine 
feat in verbal gymnastics. 

Job O. Lee, "Rax," President. 
T. Hack, Secretary, 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 



CONTENTS 



Pomes Containin' an Occasional Mor'l en 
Sometimes an Idee 



Potoky 's Comin' to the Fore 9 

Aunt Hanner's Sky Pilot 10 

Tossin' the Sweet Hay 12 

Our Cockney Schoolmaster 14 

The Cheerful Opticus 17 

The Pesticus 19 

Boostin' Pat-try-tism Along 20 

The Winter ov Fifty-five 22 

Recerpee fer Gittin' to Be a Millionaire 23 

Baby Rose 25 

The First Snow 26 

Becoz I Got Her Tag , 28 

Rollin' in the Grass 28 

Little Tot Verst 30 

Ann Elizur Boswick's Elopement 31 

Oh, Holler Eve 34 

Clothin* the Swelterin' Heathen 35 



6 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Sky Pilots Git Together 38 

We're All Worms 39 

Cheaper Soap Bubbles 41 

Is Justice Blind? 42 

Omar Kyum 43 

The Talkivarius 45 

My Ships That Went to Sea 46 

The Song of Money 48 

A Yankee Dervish 49 

Chicago's Gold Brick Factory 50 

When Gals Are Sweet 51 

A Boy's Opinion ov a Lady 53 

A. Jacks Defyin' the Lightnin' 54 

The Gyasticus 55 

Jim Duncan's Fits 57 

A Moral Langwige 59 

Cousin Jake and the Monkey. 61 

Public Opinion 63 

Savin' the Country 63 

I Think of Thee 65 

The Point of View 66 

Whiskers Air Goin' Out 67 

Curin' the Rheumatiz 69 

Rale Freedom 71 

The Flip Flop Waist 73 

Old King Coal 76 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Pomes on Litt'ry Subjects 



Writin' Some Verst 79 

Spring — er My Accepted Poem 81 

Writin' a Hysterical Novel , 83 

The Jobolee Rax en the Woolly Gogash 84 

The Spinks en the Reviewer 85 

To Horace 86 

To Jobolee Rax 87 

A Critic's Opinion ov How Rastus Held the Bridge. . 88 

To Gutenberg 8£ 

To the Amalgamated Di'Iect Forgers* Union 90 

The New Fable of the Goat on the Shed 90 

My Love and the Wraith Bud 91 

Aunt Lucindy's Rejected Pome 92 

Tell Me, Who Is Villain L? 93 

Statistics of Poetry 94 

Nonsense Rhymes 96, 97, 98 

Pomes OV Heroism in the Old Style 



How Rastus Held the Bridge 101 

The Rescoo ov Little Till 106 

Sandy Mose, the Pilot 110 

Ze Wreck ov ze Hoosier Belle 112 

The Runcounter at Risin' Sun 115 

The Great Pie Contest — Potoky vs. Mudsock 119 

Did He Save the Bag? 123 

The Real Hero 124 

After-face— Was It Worth While? 126 



POMES CONTAININ' AN 
OCCASIONAL MOR'L EN 
SOMETIMES AN IDEE 



''Of all the institutio7is ivhich ive inherit 
from antiquity, the Koivtoiv deserves to 
he held in the highest esteem, since it 
enables knaves and fools to extract sun- 
beams from, the green cucumbers of 
authority.'' 



POMES OF THE PEEPUL 



POTOKY'S COMIN' TO THE FORE. 



Most poets sing ov heroes, 
En war, en love, en glory. 

Away with songs ov Neroes — 
Sing me the peepuFs story. 

The hero hezn't got no call, 
Bekoz he chanct to win a fight. 

To be the hul cheese, not a' tall, 
En let me be a wrigglin' mite. 

The papers all, both near en fur. 
Praise men who've got the money. 

Unless the peepul make a stir 
They'll git no bread en honey. 

Potoky's comin' to the fore, 
We'll cut some litt'ery capers. 

En if we chance to make a score, 
Then we'll git in the papers. 



10 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

No millionaire owns our place, 
We've no 'Tour Hundred'' Noodles ; 

The Hoosier isn't in the race 
Fer Pink Teas en fer poodles. 

We don't say we are hully wise, 
Who view the city from afar ; 

But he'll learn more ov woods who tries 
At closer range than Pullman car. 

The woods hev flies ez well ez birds, 
Behind the plow the hours are long ; 

But grime en greed are not the words 
That genius weaves into his song. 



AUNT HANNER'S SKY PILOT. 



Aunt Hanner is a spinster quite, 
Somewheres along in thirty — 

It's hard to guess a gal's age right- 
An' 'specially gals 'at's flirty. 

En once they say Aunt Hanner did 
Hev beaux, all kinds en sizes, 

But off the hooks all ov 'em slid — 
Oh, beaux is sich surprises ! 

They kem en sot, en laffed, en talked. 
En buggy rides was drivin'. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 11 

But, like some bosses, they all balked, 
Somehow, before arrivin'. 

Ole weamen they put in their word — 

"Aunt Hanner wuz a daisy/' 
En busy gossips never heard 

''Sich do'n's to sot men crazy." 

A little "tad"— I didn't know 

'At gals air so enticin', 
I didn't think the proper beau 

Is one 'at's bent on splicin'. 

I 'low Aunt Hanner didn't guess 

Jest how ole time was runnin', 
En OV her sparkin' made a mess 

Bekoz she was a funnin'. 

En that percession, she allowed, 

'Ud last like bread an' water. 
En then my maw got riled en vowed 

'At Hanner hadn't o'tter. 

En all to once the show^ it stopt, 

En Hanner got so lonely. 
How many ov the fellers popt, 

Aunt Hanner knows it only. 

En not a "young" man onct 'ud pass 

Our door 'cept one ole cousin. 
En maw said : "He's jest sparrow grass 

'At's bunched en goes per dozen." 



12 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

But lately Aunty's hed a spell, 
'At preachers call ''revival/' 

A stiddy chap now stays to tell 
His tale, an' nary a rival. 

He's dressed in black an' looks ez glum 
Ez Hanner's lookin' cheerful. 

The chap's a gospel sharp, I vum. 
En maw is very keerful. 

He comes to see her Chuesday nights, 
En then the lamp is dimmer ; 

But them Sky Pilots trust to lights 
'At's not OV earthly glimmer. 

Aunt Hanner's smile is gittin' bright, 
All o'er her face it's spreadin'. 

An' maw she said to paw las' night, 
'There's goin' to be a weddin'." 



TOSSIN' THE SWEET HAY. 



A city poet wrote a piece 
'Bout tossin' hay. 

He said it made yer joy increase 
A tossin' hay. 

The perfume wuz a stiddy Joy, 
Enliv'nin' play. 




"I sweat entil I thought I'd melt- 
'Twas heavy hay." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 13 

En birds'!! sing to please a boy 
Wlio's tossin' hay. 

I've swung a pitcliforlc in tlie fie!d, 

With three long tines. 
Pure joy it didn't seem to yield 

'Mid brier vines. 

I sweat entil I thought I'd melt — 

'Twas heavy hay. 
The ragweed — oh, how vile it smelt, 

In that ar hay ! 

En birds — a bird ain't quite a fool. 

Round hay to poke. 
They're in the woods a keepin' cool, 

In beech or oak. 

En if a minnit I stopt work, 

When tossin' hay, 
My uncle cried : ''Yeh little shirk ! 

Come, toss away." 

I guess that poet's plan wuz this, 

Fer tossin' hay, 
He drove out with some pretty Miss, 

To spend the day. 

I wonder if, beneath the shade, 

He tried to tease her 
'Bout love? En mebbe somethin' said 

To please her? 



14 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

At any rate, he heerd the birds, 
Wot they'd to say, 

En I heerd nothin' but them words: 
''Come, toss that hay." 



OUR COCKNEY SCHOOL MASTER. 



Our deestric school hez alius bin 

Potoky's joy an' pride, 
No better found the county in 

A hull day's hossback ride. 

But onct a bloomin' Cockney one 

We hired fur a teacher, 
That Englishman just took the bun- 

Though studyin' fur a preacher. 

Fer salery that Cockney bloke — 
An' that same word is hisn — 

He didn't seem to care a stroke 
So he could keep things sizzin'. 

An' by the month, at twenty per, 
Agreed to be the master, 

An' give the Hoosier mind a spur; 
He 'low'd we'd git on faster. 

We got on faster than he knowed. 
We played 'im many a lark; 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 16 

One day at prayers when it snowed, 
A dog viz up to bark. 

It troubled 'im, 'twas plain to see, 

It did, that cay nine yowl, 
An' jest at ''amen" — well, blame me — 

That dog begins to growl. 

That puzzled 'im a good 'eal more 

He spoke an unknown tongue; 
In Cockney phrase — 'twas prayer shore — 

He wisht our necks wuz wrung. 

We set as mute as eny mice ; 

The dog was 'neath the floor; 
That chap released 'im in a trice; 

An' then we larnt some more. 

We got him coastin' down the hill, 

At sport he wuz a brick, 
We all dropped off, exceptin' Bill — 

Bill dumped 'im in the crick. 

That time the Cockney wuzn't mad, 

He said all sport wuz fair. 
An' wet as sop — it was too bad — 

He led us all in pray'r. 

Oh my! he wuz a gritty chap, 

An' only half a fool, 
By hook en crook, en ferule's rap. 

He pounded through that school 



16 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Sez Mudsock Bill one day, sez he, 
''That chap'U prove a winner, 

He's long on pra'rs, but don't yeh see, 
A hull team at 'is dinner." 

An' eat! Pap said 'at he could eat 

The devil an' drink Jordan. 
That phrase is Pap's ; I 'low it's neat, 

En mebbe wuth recordin'. 

But that there prayin' Cockney clam 
Onct made us geese fur pluckin'. 

He tuk us boatin' on the dam 
An' give us all a duckin'. 

A picnic 'twas of all the town; 

He wuz at our house stayin'. 
An' when to breakfast he come down, 

Ye ort to heerd his prayin'. 

He tuk his "lambs," us boys he meant, 

Way out upon the river. 
En then began with fool intent 

To give us all a shiver. 

He reached down quick and pulled the plug, 

The water in did pour; 
We thought we'd give a mighty tug 

An' run the boat to shore, 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 17 

An' Mudsock Bill, in great surprise, 

Tried hard to run to kiver ; 
That English cove, before our eyes, 

Jest chucked Bill in the river. 

One boy of all Potoky's set 

Had never larnt to paddle. 
That Cockney's heart was right, you bet. 

He tuk that boy a straddle. 

En, with the kid, away he swum, 

Es ezy as a turtle. 
The weamen they went daffy plumb. 

An' decked that ''bloke" with myrtle. 



THE CHEERFUL OPTICUS, 



Er Ring Dem Charmin' Bells. 



A pote there is 'at alluz rites 
Ez if this world wuz all a show. 

Where people come to see the sights, 

Where flowers bloom en brooklets flow. 

Sweet bells keep ringin' in his rhymes, 
He sings ov sunny skies en birds; 

He sees but picnics en good times, 
En good things crowdin' us in herds. 



18 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

"Jest throw a laff," that is his cry. 

So, when yer troubles git too thick, 
Some OV his rainbow verses try, 

En picnics come — he knows the trick. 

I 'low it's good "to marry joy," 
En set to work with hearty will, 

Fer too much cornfield dulls a boy ; 
The miller hez to rest his mill. 

Fie, Opticus ! You silly bard ! 

Life isn't quite all "cakes en ale;" 
There's sich a thing ez tryin' hard. 

En tryin' long — fer what? To fail. 

But if yeh fail, that Opticus 

He sez: "Why, jest you keep a rootin'; 
En don't leggo er make a muss, 

En keep yer arrers still a shootin'." 

Now that's all right, but lose the course, 
En then yeh shorely need a compass; 

So save some arrers, en some force, 
Yeh may git mixt up in a rumpus. 

An' picnics, down Potoky way. 
Come only onct er twict a year; 

We've rain, en mud, en tax to pay. 
Along OV fun en hearty cheer. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 19 

En serious folks, I 'low they do 
Fill in right well full many a chink ; 

Sweet bells — oh, they kin ring them, too, 
Ez well ez fools who never think. 



THE PESTICUS. 



YouVe all heerd ov the Opticus, 

Who sees but rainbows all the time; 

ril tell you ov the Pesticus, 
A man who spoils the sunniest clime. 

His prophecies are full ov gloom. 
If sun is bright it's shore to rain ; 

To store the stuff there'll skurce be room. 
If God should send big crops ov grain. 

En if he feels uncommon well, 
It really makes the pore man sick. 

For bubblin' joy doth oft foretell 
That trouble's comin' good en thick. 

An old song says a bunch ov money 
Makes cheerful notions round yeh play, 

Yeh feel ez if ye'd fell in honey — 
The Pesticus don't feel that way. 

He says 'at money is temptation 
En plunges yeh right into sin; 



20 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

So if yeh care fer reputation 

Not mor'n a hundred you should win. 

En if you wed a pretty girl 

That Pesticus will shake his head; 

He likes plain women — oh, the churl ! 
En sez they're more use winnin' bread. 

Let joy and woe go git together, 
En everidge up extreme idees ; 

'Tis sun en storm that make the weather, 
En good dogs sometimes kerry fleas. 



BOOSTIN' PAT-TRY-TISM ALONG. 



Sic fugit rumusculus. 



On July Fourth of Ninety-Two, 

Potoky's picnic wuz a kind 
'At 'peared to us completely new, 

But now they're quite the thing, I find. 

From Cincinnaty we hed got 

An orator to come en tell 
The noble frenzies he hed thought, 

En help us rise en soar ez well. 

Before, 'twas alluz Squire Qagg 
Who did the honors to the nation, 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 21 

En soared en talked about the flag, 
En someone read the ''Declaration/' 

This patriot, my! how he swelled! 

He pressed the flag unto his breast, 
En talked so techin' that tears welled. 

At noble thoughts so well exprest. 

He tromped the stage en loudly dared 

A traitor hand to tech one fold, 
Er soil one stripe. He wuz prepared, 

Alone, to smite that foeman bold. 

Oh, how we cheered, en clapt, en roared ! 

The orator hed more to say, 
In floods his pat-try-tism poured 

'Bout flag, en home, en freedom's way. 

En next we called fer Colonel Viers — 

In explanation. Til remark 
He led the Sixteenth Volunteers, 

At what's now Chickamaugy Park. 

Name yer own rigment fore yeh quit; 

There's rivalry 'tween volunteers. 
The rigment 'twas in which you fit. 

En your old Colonel's name wuz Viers. 

The Colonel hez no gift ov gab, 

The flag he did not grab en hold ; 
His speech wuz this : ''While traitors stab. 

There's folks who can be bought and sold." 



22 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

All eyes upon the Colonel turned, 
He gin the table sich a thumper, 

En sot down mad. Next day we learned 
Our man hed bin a bounty jumper. 



THE WINTER OV FIFTY-FIVE. 



There's a dratted ole bore 

Who sets in the store, 

From mornin' till night, 

With pipe all alight, 

En tells OV the winter ov Fifty-five, 

So cold 'at I wonder it left him alive. 

Yeh want a fish-hook. 

That man he will look. 

En then he will say. 

In a cazzual way: 

''Way back in the winter ov Fifty-five, 

The fishes friz dead en the bees in the hive/' 

En if ye want cheese. 

He'll ring in that freeze — 

Cows died er went dry. 

I s'pose he don't lie. 

But I guess 'e invents when he speaks o' the gate, 

Ov over six feet, sleds went over it straight. 




" 'Way back in the winter ov Fifty-five, 
The fishes friz dead en the bees in the hive." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 23 

Yeh ask fer some pills, 

He'll talk ov the mills, 

Friz tighter'n glue in Fifty-five, 

Not a wheel could they drive. 

En the rabbits friz stiff, squattin' under the grass, 

Ef yeh hit 'em a biff, they'd crumble like glass. 

He's a husky ole shirk, 

Who is able to work. 

En ef I wuz his wife — 

I would on my life — 

I'd git me a stick, en airnestly strive, 

To give to Ole Lazy about Fifty-five. 



RECERPEE FER GITTIN' TO BE 
A MILLIONAIRE. 



The road to wealth is easy, boys. 

Some writers say, to make a hit, 
"Save up yer money, make no noise. 

But in the gittin' use yer wit." 

To be a millionaire en win. 

So sez a book 'at's called "Success," 
Appears no trick a'tall, fer *'tin" 

Piles up on "five" per month, er less. 

The office boy soon owns the bank. 
By savin' dimes en lookin' neat. 



24 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Boys, never swear, en alluz thank 
The God that tells us not to cheat. 

En, boys, give freely all the while. 

Philanthropy's a winnin' play; 
En, when yer givin', jest boost ile 

En coal, ye'll shorely make it pay. 

Show diligence in worldly things ; 

The Scripter sez it, en it's true. 
You'll walk right in en chat with kings, 

Er kings will mebbe come to you. 

Be very keerful what yeh eat. 

En though yeh git five dollars per. 

On Saturdays, don't stand the treat. 
But keep a gittin', make a stir. 

Prosperity is ragin' round; 

They's chances yet f er him 'at tries ; 
Jest buy a railroad — I'll be bound 

Ye'll smile to see the ''water" rise. 

En wot is ''water?" Well, I say! 

Ye've got a lot ov things to learn. 
Don't talk; en never steal er lie; 

An honest boy kin millions earn. 

When good things come, be "up to snuff," 
Yer dimes will soon a million be ; 

En don't let v/orldly sinners bluff 
Yeh out ov yer plain honesty. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 25 



BABY ROSE. 



To our house a stork once brought 

A teenty little basket; 
En where it come from, no one thought 

To stop the bird and ask it. 

The nurse she found a baby there, 
En papa says: "We'll raise it;'' 

En mama says : "Fm glad it's fair ;" 
En all the fam'ly praise it. 

It grows, en grows, en crows, en crows; 

En mama lets me hold it. 
Such little feet, en tiny toes ! 

En dainty wraps enfold it! 

Our baby growed to three years old ; 

I couldn't hardly hold it. 
It got so big, en strong, en bold, 

'At papa had to scold it. 

Its cheeks were red ez any rose, 

Its blue eyes cute a peepin', 
En such a funny little nose! 

'Twas pretty — my ! when sleepin*. 



26 POMES Oy THE PEEPUU 

One day our baby wasn't well — 
We called her Rose, the dearie — 

The doctor come ; I heard 'im tell 
The nurse: ''She's got diptheery." 

I had to go away upstairs; 

En nurse kept at me peepin'; 
En then one evenin', after pray'rs, 

I heard my mama weepin'. 

Then people come, en whispered low, 
En Rose was in her coffin. 

En 'peared asleep, I looked — tiptoe, 
I'd seen 'er that way often. 

'Cept she was pale, but oh, how sweet! 

En nurse she told me, sadly, 
The Savior called Rose to his feet. 

En why? I need her badly. 



THE FIRST SNOW. 



M-N. 



Swift meteors coursed the upper night; 

The midnight groaned with snow; 
The under night, with leaves bedight, 

Roamed sadly to and fro. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 27 

Then came a white November morn, 

A waking romp and shout 
Of chubby Mary, three years born — 

Of Wonder, looking out. 

''What is zat s'uff on everysing?'' 

"Why, that is snow, my dear/' 
"Zen it is Chwis'mas. Zis will bwing 

Old Santa Clauses here/' 

Old Fat, now tugging at a shelf; 

Now gorgeous with a frown; 
Now working slyly like an elf. 

To get a hammer down. 

"Don't bozzer me. I sink you'd see 

I's got all I can 'ten' to ; 
I's worried my life out of me 
Wis twouble I has been to." 

And so she works, and puffs, and pounds, 

With hammer, socks, and tacks. 
And sings with joy, and hides the wounds 

Of half a dozen whacks. 

At last the socks — a dozen quite — 

Hang in a circling row. 
With Fatty, sunny as the light 

In the south window's bow : 



28 POMES OV THE PEEPUU 

*'Oh, my! I wouldn't for zis worl' 
Have Santa Clauses s'out: 

'Mary-to-Harriet, you bad little girl! 
Your s'ockin's wasn't out !' " 



BECOZ I GOT HER TAG. 



T'm 'ist as lonesome as kin be! 

I want to play with Mag. 
Fm sorry, it was mean o' me, 

Becoz I got her tag. 

*'En all us boys, we play so rough. 

I slipped right up to Mag, 
Behind her back, en hit a cuff, 

En runned, en hollered 'tag.' 

'I guess it hurt, becoz she cried. 
En went in her own yard. 

If she was hyur, en hadn't died, 
I'd say : 'Mag, hit me hard.' " 



ROLLIN' IN THE GRASS. 



Our Sue hez made a trip to town, 
En now that gal's inclined to frown 
At everything wot ain't in style; 
She 'lows fun here is not worth while. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 29 

I think weVe pleasures down our way 
To beat ''park" picnics any day. 
On Sunday morning to the crick 
I go en swim, en splash, en kick. 

Blue drillin' pants en clean check shirt, 
I like the grass, en I hate dirt. 
The smoky city's full ov soot. 
En all yeh do is watched to boot. 

But no policeman watches me, 
To growl if I cut some ole tree. 
One name I cut, I add a heart, 
En pryin' eyes don't make me start. 

The birds look on, but they don't care, 

They never spy, en they play fair. 

I eat raspberries in the shade, 

Fer swingin', wild grape vines were made. 

Beneath a locust tree I sit. 

While birds above me sing en flit, 

A sweet scent comes from blowin' grass, 

En fleecy clouds above me pass. 

'Twould sicken me, that city stench, 
En then to set on that ole bench, 
Instid ov rollin', light en free, 
On June grass 'neath a locust tree! 



30 * POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

They've signs that read : ''Keep off the grass/' 

In cities, where poHcemen pass. 

En on the sward yeh can't lay down, 

It isn't proper in the town. 

It's strange! Up there no bumble bees, 
Er things like that, buzz round the trees. 
The men look prim in fresh, biled shirts, 
The gals are pooty, but they're flirts. 

I s'pose some people like sich things, 
I'd ruther be where catbird sings. 
En my 'Vacation" I will pass 
A roUin' in the sweet June grass. 



LITTLE TOT VERST. 



Fd likj^ to write some little dots 
Ov pomes about sweet kids, 

About precocious, tiny tots — 
For sich the papers bids. 

I've got the feelin's an' the will, 
Fer little tots persuasive. 

But somethin's lackin' in me still; 
I find the kids evasive. 

Instid ov lispin' in my ear 
Some wise en clever sayin', 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 31 

The din is such I skurce kin hear 
The wit 'at's roun' me playin'. 

If I make up to any kid, 

He'll shorely pull my hair. 
One little tyke — blame me, he did, 

Jest tossed my watch in air. 

En little gals air dreadful fly, 

En cuter than pet monkeys. 
But big tough boys — oh, me! oh my! 

Fd sooner play with donkeys. 

But Fm in trainin' — don't yeh scoff — 

Bineby FU git the motions ; 
En then Fm shore to reel 'em off, 

Sweet, techin' toddlers' notions. 



ANN ELIZUR BOSWICK'S ELOPEMENT. 



Jim Boswick wuz so close he'd skim 

His milk on t'other side. 
En hed there bin a way fer Jim 

To skin a flea, he'd tried. 

Si Briggs, a Rush Creek yunker, came 

A sparkin' Ann Elizur, 
En ev'ry Sunday 'twas the same — 

It riled ole Jim, the miser. 



32 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

En to the lovyers Jim wuz mean, 
He gredged 'em light en fire, 

En when Si sot too long, he clean 
Fergot hisself with ire. 

Ez Si held Lizur's hands one night — 
Fer Si wuz not so poky — 

Ole Jim walked in en 'lowed he might 
Kick Si clean to Potoky. 

Si up an' got, but not afore 
Twelve inch ov Hoosier boot. 

Jest ez he passed the parlor door, 
Wuz landed 'neath his coat. 

Jim Boswick's meanness hed a plan, 

Fer he wuz full ov hope 
^At sich a kick mout rile the man. 

En then the gal'd elope. 

That way full seven dotters went. 
The ole screw druv 'em to it, 

Fer weddin's — scat! he'd nary cent. 
He'd let 'em 'lope en rue it. 

So Ann Elizur comes to Till, 

En Si he comes to me; 
We planned to meet 'em at the mill, 

We liked 'em both, yeh see. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 33 

I lent to Si the sorrel mare, 

Elizur rode Ole Dick, 
A family boss 'at wouldn't rare, 

Er throw her in the crick. 

Jim Boswick somehow smelt a rat — 

Twas fer a bluff he done it — 
He hed elopements right down pat. 

He chased 'em, but they won it. 

But this one didn't turn that way, 

He crossed the bridge a joltin' — 
*Tive Dollars Fine" — Jim couldn't stay, 

Bekoz his boss was boltin' 

They passed us at a lightnin' pace, 
En Ole Dick stopped en whickered. 

The fool ole boss, en quit the race. 
But Ann Elizur snickered. 

Jim see 'at he wuz in the snare 

Ov Ole Dick — an his dotter. 
Ef she hed rid the sorrel mare 

The hull town couldn't caught her. 

En when the party's done, to pay 

The piper alluz follers; 
The weddin' kem, en peepul say 

It cost Jim seven dollers. 



34 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 



OH, HOLLER EVE! 



Oh, Holler Eve! 

Oh, Holler Eve! 

Ye'Il set folks wild, I do believe. 

What wuz yer foolish ori-gin 

Ov playin' tricks en makin' din ? 

On Holler Eve 

The boys retrieve 
A year's refraining I believe. 
They upset stacks en pen up hogs. 
Play ghost to skeer both men en dogs. 

Oh, Holler Eve, 

Would you believe, 

'At July Fourth makes us to grieve ? 

With pat-try-tism runnin' wild, 

En blowin' up both man en child. 

Oh, Holler Eve, 

Yer old! don't grieve; 

En July Four kin still achieve ; 

You go en jine that ole King Cole, 

They say 'at he's a good ole sole. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 35 

En, Holler Eve, 

There's New Year's Eve; 

His din 'ud make the angels grieve, 

With noise the wust I ever knew. 

Oh, you're not in it, no, not you ! 

Our Uncle Sam 

May be a lamb, 

But he won't stand fer any clam. 

So travel, er some di'lect verst 

I'll shoot at you, en do my worst. 

Ov holler days, 

En foohsh ways. 

We hev a purty stiddy blaze. 

So Holler Eve got up en lit, 

My verst hed given him a fit. 



CLOTHIN' THE SWELTERIN' HEATHEN 



Last winter we'd a ''bal maskay," 

The first un 'at we ever had. 
En mother talked agin sich play — 

She said its "moral tone" was bad. 

The Baptis' people planned the show, 
To raise some fun's fer mission use, 

Collections hed been dreadful slow ; 

They 'lowed a "maskay" might perduce. 



36 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

We heerd a movin' tale so sad, 
Ov savidges who hed no close — 

No, not a stitch; it wuz too bad — 
They hed to stay at home, I s'pose. 

Sez Maw : *The show 'ill be a fake 
If Paw blows in/' Maw's ruther sot. 

En she allowed 'at Cousin Jake 
Could run the ''maskay" to a dot. 

Jake works in Evansville, en he 

Knows dances, en all kinds ov balls. 

He hez politeness to a T, 

En spends 'is cash fer fol-de-rols. 

My Maw's good lookin', slim en tall ; 

She's ov a size with Nellie Price, 
Who teaches school at Rocky Fall — 

Young fellers think Nell's mighty nice. 

That night the gals looked very sweet. 
En cash dropt freely from the beaux, 

Fer everybody stood a treat 
To buy the savidges sum close. 

And on the late train Warner came — 
That's Jake — he hatched a plot, I guess; 

Fer he proposed a kissin' game, 
To give them heathen decent dress. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 37 

Each kiss was auctioned fer a lark. 

Paw bid straight ''ten" for No. i, 
En up to ''twenty'' went one spark, 

At "twenty-fifty'' Paw hed won. 

First chice was his'n on that bid, 

He spotted Nell to be his prize. 
But Maw en her to one side slid. 

En changed their jackets fer disguise. 

Nell wuz ez sweet ez eny rose; 

No wonder all the men liked her; 
Most gals look peart in Sunday close; 

To pick en sort seemed like a slur. 

Paw searched the line from head to foot, 
Like hitchin' posts the weamen stood, 

A bad boy like an owl went "hoot," 
En one gal sez : "Oh, he's no good !" 

Ez Maw was jest Miss Price's size. 

Paw grabbed en snatched her mask away, 

En giv' two smacks 'fore all their eyes — 
En Paw — I thought he'd faint away. 

Maw laft till she most hed a fit, 

They stomped en yelled to see the joke. 

The preacher fairly danced to git 
Sich fun's to lift the heathen's yoke. 



38 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Paw sez he knowed it all the while, 

But Maw she winks ; en now Paw figgers 

How much red flannen they will spile 
A clothin' sweatin' little niggers. 



SKY PILOTS GIT TOGETHER. 



Macamo xi-cochi in oquic temachtilo. 



Sky pilots are a cur'ous lot, 

Their ways are most surprising 

One sez this world for joy was got, 
One sez it's wus'n pizen. 

Potoky's pilot alluz prays 
In bloomin' beds ov ease; 

His world is made ov big bokays, 
En flowers deck the trees. 

Our last un sed we wuz a band 
Ov lost en wretched sinners. 

En in the race fer glory land 
Potoky'd hev few winners. 

Now when the pilots disagree, 
Who's goin' to bring the ship in? 

The passengers, it's plain to see, 
Hev got no right to chip in. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 39 

It kindeh puts me ofif my pins 

When one cotes Greek en Hebrew, 

Prescribin,' hell-broth fer my sins, 
Far hotter'n any we brew. 

En follers him, perhaps nex' day, 
The chap who b'lieves in flowers, 

En jollies us along the way, 
All sunshine en May showers. 

Now 'spose some reverend would tell 

The sartin way we're goin'. 
One Sunday, heaven, next one — well, 

Jest where, guide-posts ain't showin,. 

I wish for onct the gospel sharps 

Would git a better theery, 
I don't care much to pick on harps. 

An' brimstone is too skeery. 



WE'RE ALL WORMS. 



Some things were hully past my bent, 
When I wuz young, though my intent 
Was not so bad by all the light 
I hed, and my poor arthly sight. 

One thing was Presbyterians, 
Another was Lutherians. 



40 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

The Baptist's easier; if you ''dip/' 
Ye're fit to sail in his old ship. 

A Presbyterian preached one day, 
En, my ! how he could preach en pray ! 
With learned phrase, in Hebrew terms, 
He cut out hope en put in worms. 

**We're all poor worms," that's wot he said ; 
Alive we're bad, en wuss when dead. 
It made me feel most dreadful small 
To think ov worms 'at squirm en crawl. 

Ov all the things beneath the skies, 
A worm's least pleasin' to my eyes. 
En when his solum talk I heard, 
I thought about the early bird. 

Thinks I : ''If man ain't more than that. 
He's small potatoes, that is flat." 
En then I thought perhaps he's right. 
In moral heft man's ruther light. 

That preacher come en staid fer dinner 
En o'er the pit he shook each sinner. 
His talk was worms en how to die, 
'Cept onct he praised up mother's pie. 

That's years ago. I've jogged along, 
En lived on hope. He put it strong. 
He got mixt up in musty terms ; 
God don't speak Hebrew jest to worms. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 41 



CHEAPER SOAP BUBBLES. 



'Nonsense is a foolish thing, 

And I will prove it as I sing/' — Old Song, 



A man has a scheme 
That seems like a dream. 
He says that soap bubbles, 
To lighten our troubles, 
Well finished and strong, 
By the short or the long, 
He'll supply anywhere 
'Most as cheap as fresh air. 

Through his great invention, 
And present intention. 
Our bubbles, fresh bent, 
With finest soap blent, 
Of water perfumed — 
When once they are boomed- 
He'll sell us, this puffer, 
So cheap we can't suffer. 

'Tis an age that achieves. 
And likewise believes. 
So, long live the slot. 
May it give us things hot, 



42 POMES OV THE PEEPUL 

From religion and soap 
To peanuts and ''dope." 
And when you're in trouble, 
Just drop in a nickel 
And pull out a bubble. 



IS JUSTICE BLIND? 



A man once told a racy joke ; 

A donkey hee-hawed by the barn ; 
And up ''Smart Alec'' glibly spoke : 

"Your brother likes your little yarn." 

The man who set up for a wit 
Then failed to differentiate asses. 

"Smart Alec" thought he'd made a hit, 
Which led to caustic verbal passes. 

As both the men had cash and pride, 
The lawyers thought well of their case, 

From court to court that joke was tried. 
First one, then t'other, led the race. 

'Twas dirty linen in the wash, 

That case "Re: Joker versus Ass" — 

"Venire," "summons," "stay" and "quash"- 
While back and forth the quibbles pass. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 43 

And character is overhauled, 

Tis "libel," "slander," "malice" vile, 

Till both contestants are well mauled. 
An' costs pile up while lawyers smile. 

But Justice, though they say she's blind, 
Will guide you to the Court Supreme. 

Beware the law, or you may find 

You've set a cat to watch your cream. 



OMAR KYUM. 



Iquac ye micoayan acmo tlein onca. 



I read a book ov Omar Kyum, 

(These furrin' names, I skurce dare try 'em). 

That poet says 'at all this life 

Ain't wuth the trouble en the strife. 

In taverns people eat en drink; 
That Omar went there jest to think. 
I wonder if it was the bill 
That made him think all life is ill? 

It's often hard to grasp the whys; 
He's foolish who too often tries ; 
En life, I think, is, in its givin'. 
No more than this — to keep on livin'. 



44 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

If it's a simple case ov plowin', 
Don't set a whyin' en a howin', 
But run yer furrer true en straight, 
En sow the seed, en learn to wait. 

And, if that seed fails to come up, 
You'll find poor solace in the cup. 
Go look you fer the cause of it, 
A change ov crop may make a hit. 

En when we sit down to a meal, 
I think it's best that we should feel 
That food is part ov the Great Sum. 
Dismiss all care for meals to come. 

An' when ye're settin' in the shade, 

Remember life for that was made 

Ez well ez work er readin' books, 

Life means all things, from skies to cooks. 

We're all too apt to think 'at we 
Hain't got the things 'at best agree, 
Some other toiler looks at us 
En thinks he's made ov life a muss. 

En some folks covet the blue sky, 
They fret en fume, en they will try 
To make fer them a rug ov it, 
En when they fail they want to quit. 




"I wonder if it was the l)ill 

Tliat made him thinly all life is ill?*' 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 45 

If me en Omar don't agree, 
I don't say he's all wrong, not me. 
Sometimes it's best sich men to meet. 
One thing is sure — he knocks conceit. 



THE TALKIVARIUS. 



Words, Words, My Lord." 



There's a fiddle that's called Stradivarius 
That is reckoned uncommonly fine, 

There's a critter I'll call 'Talkivarius" 
Who is always right there in the line. 

En I hear 'at that fiddle 'most talks, 
When the fiddler is called Virtuoso, 

But that other machine never balks 

Ez it plays to the tune ov : 'T know so/' 

En its wisdom is something surpassing 
It needs no skilled hand at the keys, 

It never grows tired of ''gassin'," 
Its speech is a "go as you please." 

En from tariff to ketchin' a rabbit, 
^'Talkivarius" knows what to do. 

He don't need a chance, he will nab it. 
As he comes to the rescue of vou. 



46 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

En suppose ye're discussin' religion — 
He settles the thing at a shot, 

En then soars away like a pigeon, 
Or drops a new quiz in the slot. 

His tone is so sure and emphatic, 

Ez he utters his dictum: "I know so," 

You think ov a phrase democratic, 
What makes Talkivarius ''blow" so? 



MY SHIPS THAT WENT TO SEA. 



M-y. 



One after one they slipped the stocks 

And one by one they sailed; 
Slow creaked the heavy tackle blocks 

And low the pennants trailed, 
As out beyond the restless tide 

Fast-ebbing — far to lee— 
They drifted o'er the ocean wide, 

My ships that went to sea. 

Adown the long horizon's rim 
I watched them as they passed, 

Until within the distance dim 
They faded out at last; 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 47 

As happy birds, that seek the skies 

When first from cage set free, 
So disappeared before mine eyes 

My ships that went to sea. 

And other ships have come and gone 

Since my ships sailed away. 
And many a year in dusk and dawn 

And many a night and day — 
Full oft the grass has shimmered green 

And budded flower and tree, 
But since that hour none have seen 

My ships that went to sea. 

And yet — and yet — within my dreams 

Shows every mast and rope 
And sweetly on my farewell gleams 

The smiling face of Hope; 
My slumbering fancies grope afar — 

Through visions not to be, 
I see them cross the harbor bar, 

My ships that went to sea. 

Ah, nevermore! Nay, nevermore! 

Shall I such gladness feel, 
For on some storm-strewn, rocky shore 

Lies every shattered keel; 
And still, defying all that Fate 

Has brought or keeps for me, 
Upon the moaning sands I wait 

My ships that went to sea. 



48 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 



THE SONG OF MONEY. 



"Git a plenty while yer gittin'." 

— Hoosier Schoolmaster. 



Money, money everywhere, 

Money in your dreams, 
Silver moon in silver air, 

Golden sun with copper gleams. 

Money weds a handsome wife, 
Money gets a better coat. 

Money, money, all your life. 
From doubloon to copper groat. 

Sit and figure in your banks, 
Lay a line of gleaming dollars, 

York to Frisco, shining ranks. 
Out upon your mousing scholars! 

Money buys you information. 
Money buys you silks and beer. 

Money builds the greatest nation. 
Money — that is greatness here. 

What's the use to hide and study, 
Like a badger in his hole. 



POMES OK THE PEEPUL, 49 

If with dollars everybody 
Can win out and make his goal? 

And the men who haven't money, 
They can read ov those who have, 

For the very name — 'tis funny — 
Soothes the Yankee like a salve. 

Money, synonym of goodness, 

For our manners set us paces, 
Money is not vulgar rudeness. 

Flaunt your dollars in our faces. 

Money, Heaven's noblest blessing, 
Shun me and my spirit wails. 

Culture isn't worth caressing, 
Cash will tip life's sordid scales. 

Poverty is meet for scoffin', 
Only fools are short of gold. 

When Fm dead, pray make my coffin 
Gold and diamonds — and more gold. 



A YANKEE DERVISH. 



Say not the age of faith its course has run, 
Say not believing has endured eclipse. 
Say not there is but one Apocalypse, — 

Of devotees we claim the chiefest one. 



50 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

At early coffee he unfolds the sheet, 

(Pray call it 'Tribune'' for the sake of name). 
'Tis Holy Writ in print. Its ev'ry claim 

Is shining truth to guide the voter's feet. 

Of ''scoops'' and "enterprise" it ever brags, 
It tells its dervish taxes are a boon, 

Without "franchises" progress ever lags ; 

Its milk is chalk, 'tis fed from pewter spoon. 

The dervish spreads the oracle abroad ; — 
Let unbelievers scoff, he trusts his God. 



CHICAGO'S GOLD BRICK FACTORY. 



"Chicago Day," I heerd 'em say 

The Gold Brick Fact'ry, night en day, 

Was makin' bricks fer country chicks. 
Who bet on "shells" and races play. 

Well, I'll be blest ! that town can't rest ! 

Chicago works both night en day. 
The jay will "spiel" and then he'll "squeal/ 

Becoz things didn't come his way. 

Chicago eyes soon take their size. 

When country "Reubens" come to stay. 

En I surmise there ain't no fliies 

On that town when she makes a play. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 51 

From which and whence, it's common sense, 
That he who runs against a ''game" 

Will take his brick, en go home quick, 
En find a market fer the same. 



WHEN GALS ARE SWEET. 



'Ou/c 'e0i\7;(r€. 



I've often heerd ov gals 'at's sweet, 

But I don't know quite what that means, 

At guessin' weamen I am beat 

From widders down to sweet sixteens. 

I once asked Maw what sweet gals air. 

She laughed en sez: ''Oh, go away! 
A question foolish ez that there ! 

Yer gittin' sillier every day." 

En next I asked the hired man ; 

He grinned en said he didn't know. 
"Why don't yeh kiss one? That's the plan! 

But don't be brash, at fust go slow." 

I weighed his words a good long spell. 

To kiss a gal did not seem hard, 
When facts with theery go 'tis well, 

But kissin' isn't done by card. 



52 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

When I wuz gittin' toward eighteen, 
I vowed rd try the sweets or bust; 

I fell in love with Retta Deane; 
My case was shorely ov the wust. 

They all said Retta Deane wuz ''sweet," 

En round her mouth the smiles did play so, 

I'd gin a farm to hev that treat, 

But "sweetness'' hed to go by say so. 

One evenin' in the dusk I jumpt. 
En tried to ketch one on the fly, 

En Retta's little fist it thumpt 

Me sich a whack right in the eye. 

Then Retta went en told her Paw. 

It raised a rumpus in the school, 
The Deanes they threatened tryin' law, 

En everybody called me ''fool." 

Now, when some stunnin' gal I see. 
Although my inclination's ample, 

I count the cost, en let her be. 

Some other man kin hev the sample. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 53 



A BOY'S OPINION OV A LADY. 



Long time ago, when I wuz but a boy, 
Pap took me clear to Injunopolis. 
We went to the theayter seein' plays. 
To git their tickets folks stood in a line; , 
When Pap begun I counted good nineteen. 
En, my, we hed to w^ait so long a spell ! 
In sailed a lady en she passed the line, 
En tuk ten minutes there discussin' seats. 
En got her tickets, en she flounced right in. 
It tuk Pap's breath. En little dunce I was, 
To say : 'T wisht I was a lady now.'' 
They snickered, en a man sez: '^Lady! nix!" 
Sence then, I've thought ov that remark ov his. 
When I see lovely woman's cur'ous ways. 
She kin be sassy, en folks call her cute 
If she is pretty. How she calls men down 
If one should mention 'leg" before the sex 
Which hez but limbs, en smells but odors sweet ! 
Pap says she keeps things stirrin' in hotels. 
With bell boys runnin' en the chambermaid 
Workin' all day to clean her rooms, while man, 
The tyrant, waits his turn, 'bout onct a month. 



54 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

A woman hez some priv'lidges fer sure! 

But real ladies hez not sich a chance. 

They're sort ov meek, en thank yeh, en say things 

*At makes a man feel good instid ov raw. 



A. JACKS DEFYIN' THE LIGHTNIN'. 



A Boy's Opinion of Livin' Statooary. 



A. Jacks, I want to know why you defied 

The lightnin' there upon that glitt'rin' stage, 

At Cincinnatty? You come out drest up 

In tights, to make yer play, en pose in scorn 

And underclothes. Ez if you wuz a Glad- — 

lator! You, a mere Jim Nast, would dare 

Withstand a blow of that tremenjus bolt 

Ov great cloud-splittin' Jove ! Why, that will rend 

A burr-oak tree 'at's four feet through, en hurl 

Great fragments round the shrinkin' neighborhood. 

To think, A. Jacks, ov the conceit ov you ! 

In underclothes at that! On Afric's strand, 

I've read somewhere, the blacks make that same 

spiel. 
They dance when lightnin' smites a tree en cry, 
Profane ez pirates : "Bully boy ! Sail in !" 
En things not fit fer poetry's chaste page. 
But savidges don't know, A. Jacks, while you 
Hail from New York, en ot'ter know 'at you 




"A. Jacks, I want to know why you defied 
The lightnin' there upon that glitt'rin' stage?" 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 55 

Air not jest quite chain-lightnin', not a'tall. 
I hope the real thing will spare yer frame. 
To play with sacred things ! Presumin' man. 
Be wise, A. Jacks, en tempt not Providence. 



THE GYASTICUS. 



Yeh want to wed a charmin' wife, 
Er git insurance on yer life, 
Er build a house, er mend a shoe, 
Gyasticus will see yeh through. 

He's alluz ready, standin' by, 
Yer broken chiny he will glue. 

He makes yer collar jest so high. 
He regulates yer prayers, too, 

The Great Gyasticus. 

Suppose yeh love some pretty girl. 
Who's sot yer feelin's in a whirl — 
Gyasticus will step right in. 
En ask yeh if she hez the "tin," 

Er sez her pretty hair is red. 
En 'lows she's not the girl to win, 

He hez a party picked instead. 
The jig is up, 'en you give in 

To Great Gyasticus. 

Suppose yeh write a little book, 
En try yer best, by hook er crook. 



56 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

To git the thing in plain print set, 
Gyasticus will come, en bet 

Ye're not an author ; Shakespeare is. 
Yer book comes back with the ''regret" 

Ov some Gyasticus whose quiz 
Would put Old Homer in a sweat. 

That Litte'ry Gyasticus. 

Gy treats all people 'bout the same, 
Though no one seems to know his name. 
Yeh try to run a country store, 
Gyasticus'll prove a bore. 

In cities, too, he's most severe; 
En if yeh want, at yer back door, 

A dinky little alley — queer — 
YeVe gotter wait — en pay, what's more, 
Some Great Gyasticus. 

En now I hope that you'll excuse 
Me if I state more ser'ous views. 
I think when God begun this earth, 
Ole Gy hed doubts about its worth. 

An' when the contracks all were signed, 
(I mean no sackerlidge or mirth) 

An' all the blue prints nicely lined. 
Then God remarked : "I hope the earth 
Will please Gyasticus." 

There's but one thing in all the lot, 
Where Gy ain't "Johnny on the spot." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Yey may die, if yeh ain't too slow. 
Before Gyasticus'll know. 

But bein' buried's somethin' worse, 
He'll be there pacin' to en fro ; 

He'll pick the preacher en the hearse. 
No spot on earth, search high, search low. 
Escapes Gyasticus. 



JIM DUNCAN'S FITS. 



Jim Duncan's wuz a cur'ous case, 
The Doctor failed to fathom it. 

Fer Jim wuz strong, health lit his face. 
But if he worked, Jim tuk a fit. 

He married Deacon Jones' girl. 
En money — Jones hez lots ov it. 

But Jim at sight ov work would curl 
En twist en throw a fearful fit. 

It kep' Jim's wife all in a stew, 
Ole Deacon Jones got mad ez hop, 

But nothin' all ov 'em could do 

Would help the fits or make 'em stop. 

Waal, yes, there wuz one remedy, 
That wuz to take away the work, 

Then Jim got well ez well could be, 
En sot en smoked like eny Turk. 



58 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

En Missus Duncan most hed fits, 
To see Jim twist, en froth, en warp 

Like ellum lumber ; en to bits 

Ye'd think he'd fly, en be a ''corp." 

Ole Deacon Jones wuz scrimpin' tight, 
He argyed all folks otter work. 

En vowed no pills could set Jim right, 
Becoz the rascal wuz a shirk. 

The Doctor tuk the sick man's part. 
En said Jim mustn't nohow work 

Lest "workophoby'' rend his heart. 
While microbes in the blood did lurk. 

One swelterin' day, when help wuz slack, 
En rain wuz threatenin' ov the hay, 

The Deacon bid Jim mount the stack. 
He figgered Jim might work one day. 

Jim said he felt a little "painy," 

The Deacon snapt ; 'T ain't no fool." 

En then Jim tuk his "restomany" 
En acted like a balky mule. 

They laid 'im down upon the hay. 
En someone fer the Doctor ran. 

The Deacon smiled in his dry way, 
En said : ''Boys, Tve a little plan.'* 



POMES OV THE PEEFUL, 59 

He had a vile of hartshorn there, 

He chucked the stuff 'way up Jim's nose ; 

Jim sprung about nine feet in air ; 
It limbered 'im clean to the toes. 



A MORAL LANGWIGE. 



"Dulce est jactare patriam." 

It is sweet to brag for one's country. 



N. B. — In readin' this pome the reader should re- 
set his gage at every other stanzy. 



If I hed the time en a sprinklin' ov cash, 

I'd study some langwiges, though it were rash, 

If yeh hark to that Cockney who taught in our 

school. 
"Furrin' tongues air immoral," said he, ''ez a rule." 

The other teachers all hed taught 

To call a certain letter h. 
Entil that Cockney come we thought 

We hed 'em all ; he added haitch. 

En so it was settled, beyond any doubt, 
Our spellin' books all hed left one letter out. 
A haitch en a ho en a hu en a hess, 
Spelled 'ouse, with a hce to finish the mess. 



60 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

He said 'Vight smart" en "peart" were wrong, 
En ''hadn't ort," en ''gump" en ''hook" it, 

But on his haitches he wuz long, 
Or short, ez how yeh took it. 

En the moral of all his discussin' was this : 
Fer bein' "quite right" Hengland's never amiss. 
So the French en the Dutch en the Heathen Chinee, 
Air wicked becoz their gab's wicked, ye see. 

We thought the hull idee was queer, 

'At lingo could immoral be; 
He must be right; he'd studied clear 

From Moses to doxology. 

Compared to his larnin', we didn't know beans ; 
En we hedn't the morals of dooks er ov queens. 
So we figger'd the Frenchman hed g'one to the bad, 
Becoz ov the "parley" the frog-eater had. 

Ef I were President, en had 

The bossin' ov the Philippines, 
rd give them English, good er bad. 

En then they'd know what moral means. 

I'd shoot in the Yankee, en old Hinglish, too, 
In mixin' the breed, they'd be made over new. 
En the moral ov Hinglish, I'd rub it in strong, 
Fer it's sartin' the Saxon wa'n't born to be wrong. 



POMES OF THE PEEPUL. 61 



COUSIN JAKE AND THE MONKEY. 



Jake Warner, down in Evansville, 

Hez lately tuk a stylish wife. 
He argyed country girls would kill 

A man yoked up with them fer life. 

But Cousin Jake hez had a nuff 
Ov style, en teas, en birds, en pups. 

He 'lows 'at shillin' tea's a bluff 

When served in gold band chaney cups. 

En Jake hain't got much cash to burn — 
He's something in the grocer way. 

She bought a fifty-dollar urn. 

En Jake declared he wouldn't pay. 

She brought him round with winnin' ways ; 

She bought queer things from near en far ; 
It put Jake in a sorter haze 

To think 'at he owned a bazaar. 

One day that woman tuk a kink 
To buy a monkey, sure ez guns, 

En in despair Jake sez : "I think 
I'm 'monk' enough with all these duns." 



62 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

That night to vaudeville they both went, 
En left that ''monk" to run the place. 

He played around with good intent, 
But smashed that fifty-dollar vase. 

That seemed to whet his appetite. 

He threw things round to see 'em drop ; 

When they got home en struck a light, 
They thought earthquakes hed hit that shop. 

Jake vowed he'd kill him sure ez fate, 
Poor Genevieve sot down en cried. 

That monkey wasn't born so late — 
Jake couldn't grab him when he tried. 

He jumped upon the chandelier; 

He broke the last remainin' plate. 
He tore the curtains. It was clear 

That ''monk" hed come fulfillin' fate. 

Jake uttered one short gleeful laugh, 
Half 'loud en half below his breath, 

Then grabbed an "Oriental" staff 
En laid that monkey cold in death. 

He tuk the parrot, en the pup, 
En softly down the stairway slid ; 

The cistern door he lifted up, 
Then slapt it down. His crime wuz hid. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 63 

En now, Jake sez, ''two-penny swills/' 
Theyll drink in common cups like ours; 

He's settlin' up the monkey's bills, 
En Genevieve ain't buyin' flowers. 



PUBLIC OPINION. 



There was a little man 

Who had a big idee, 
But all his neighbors said : 

^'The thing won't work, you see." 

He turned it into cash, 

It really was surprisin'. 
His neighbors all were proud, 

Because their ''friend" was risin'. 

He hatched another scheme, 
His neighbors highly puffed it ; 

It didn't work at all. 
And that is how they "muffed" it. 



SAVIN' THE COUNTRY. 



Like sailors at sea on a raft. 
Our country in danger will be. 

If we fail to elect Johnnie Graft, 
He sez it, en that'll do me. 



64 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

I vote the straight ticket, I do, 
En Johnnie's the man of the hour ; 

The * 'enemy" mustn't pull through 
En hev offices all in their power. 

Detractors may sneer at his name — 
He couldn't well help that it's Graft. 

That patriot riz to his fame 

By his genius, en not by his craft. 

I say he's the man ov the hour. 

In Chiny er in Philippines, 
He'd make the world quake at our power. 

En show it what liberty means. 

The other side alluz incline 

To harp on our failures at home, 

But the eagle's a bird that would pine 
If he couldn't sail upward and roam. 

They sneer about "dirtiest streets," 
And of ''boodle" they set up a roar ; 

Who cares if our great iron fleets 
Make the Chinaman open his door? 

En the other side, not eny doubt, 
Would sink the ole craft in the sea ; 

Mugwumps en reformers may shout — 
Johnnie Graft is the man 'at suits me. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 65 

Pat-ry-tism should win in the race, 

And graftin' improves a pore tree. 
I think 'at the man fer the place 

Is the man who knows grafting yeh see. 

Like sailors at sea on a raft, 

Our country in danger will be, 
If we fail to elect Johnnie Graft — 

He sez it, en that'll do me. 



I THINK OF THEE. 



Sweetheart, I hear glad wedding chimes, 

The olden spell again I feel. 
Oh, gentle heart ! Oh, hallowed times, 

Whose tender memories round me steal. 

To-day I sit beneath the tree 

Where once our youthful love did plight ; 
All is the same, the bird, the bee, 

The butterflies in careless flight. 

And other days return to me, 
To other flowers comes the rain. 

When all my world was love and thee ; 
There, hand in hand, we walk again. 

Sleep, sweetheart, sleep, beneath the grass, 
They tell me Heaven is for thee. 



66 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

The birds, the rain, the flowers pass, 
But memory links thee still to me. 

Sleep, sweetheart, sleep, beneath the grass, 
I heed not bird or falling rain, 

For I, like them, must onward pass. 
And other hearts will share my pain. 

I sit and dream of thee, ofttimes, 
I hear a voice of that rare day. 

For others, ring sweet wedding chimes — 
But thou art mine, sweetheart, for aye. 



THE POINT OF VIEW. 



In rating up your neighbor's worth, 
The point ov view is what will tell. 

You're sailing in a big balloon, 
Perhaps I'm digging in a well. 

So don't cast doubt on him who sees 
A different world from what you know ; 

The eagle soars above the clouds, 
The snappin' turtle travels low. 

To read that curious "Book of Snobs," 
You'd think the English all are wrong; 

And Frenchmen, if Balzac be right. 
Will go where fires burn up strong. 



POMES OV THE PEEFUL. 67 

Like Don Quixote, I have run 

My lance through evils with a vim, 

But Fve no doubt someone will say : 
*'It's envy that inspires him." 

Look up, but also look you down; 

The weed is daughter of the sun. 
Humanity in endless chain 

Links all, from king to peasant's son. 

Without ideals none may climb, 

Without ideals none attain. 
And though we may not scale the heights, 

A few steps upward is a gain. 



WHISKERS AIR COIN' OUT. 



They say that whiskers must **go out." 

It's too bad. 
Some men kin never do without. 

It's too bad. 
Some men will twiddle their mustaches 

To scatter gloom. 
It seems to start their wit in flashes 

Around the room. 
But shear 'em, then how will they play? 

It's too bad. 
I fear their gloom will come to stay. 

It's very sad. 



68 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

New 'Trophets/' too, depend on whiskers, 

To cast their spell; 
Without a beard they'd all be riskers 

Ov goin' to — jail. 
School-masters young, ez I hev heerd, 

Need hairy faces, 
To make the youngsters all afeard. 

En mind their places. 
Some doctors hev ov hair a shock, 

Upon their face, 
But shave them, en perhaps you'll block 

Them in the race. 
In whiskers, microbes hev their lair! 

Is that a flam? 
I wonder microbes didn't scare 

Old Abraham. 
I think the hull thing is fer fun. 

About mustaches. 
With whiskers wives air often won — 

En there's eyelashes. 
It's gittin' hardly safe to eat, 

In days like these. 
With dreadful critters in good meat. 

With bugs in cheese. 
En bread's alive with things 'at's growin'. 

En milk is full. 
You'll quit both food en clothes when knowin' 

Some worms like wool. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 69 

I guess life isn't wuth the livin', 

Au naturel. 
The last thing that weVe got we're givin'. 

This world's a sell. 



CURIN' THE RHEUMATIZ. 



The rheumatiz is wuss than sin. 
My! my! what rackin' pains ye're in. 
En cures — yeh couldn't ^'shake a stick" 
At all the cures that pelt yeh thick. 

Excrutiatin' the disease! 

Exasperatin' friends who tease 

En add their cures unto yer ills, 

From "new thought" down to liver pills. 

One says potato in the pocket, 
One wears a magic ring to block it, 
Some take a fluid fiery red, 
Another tries blue drops instead. 

One hides a cure out in the barn. 
His pains all vanish — what a yarn ! 
Some drink hot water till they're full, 
En some contend the cure is wool. 

Their remedies would fill a book; 
Some blame the weather, some the cook. 



70 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

En all express their discontent. 

If you refuse their cures well meant. 

They call yeh stubborn, en decry 
Yer anguish, 'coz yeh fail to try. 
The wust one in the lot, indeed. 
Is him who says yeh otter bleed. 

If all these remedies ye'd try. 

The hull earth you would want hard by, 

A Turkish bath, a lot ov wool, 

Ov pills about two drug stores full. 

Potatoes, ''yarbs," en liquids blue. 

En green en red en yaller, too, 

Some rings, a tank ov brand ''new thought/' 

En liniments from fakirs bought. 

En don't fergit electric belts; 
Some wrap themselves in fresh, green pelts; 
A few try ants; some stings ov bees; 
Some place their faith in bark ov trees. 

And peel it upward — ^that is right — 
If you would walk off free en light; 
But peel it downward, Til be bound, 
Yer feet will cling close to the ground. 

If you're not dead before you're through, 
Go walk barefooted in the doo, 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 71 

Er try a bath of red-hot mud, 
En eat roast inguns fer yer blood. 

Some bid you banish "mortal mind/' 
That pesky thing to pain's inclined. 
Trees hev no mind, 'tis plain to see, 
En rheumatiz don't strike a tree. 

If you are strong enough to try 
These simple cures, yer pains will fly. 
But if they don't, keep up the biz, 
I hev more cures for rheumatiz. 



RALE FREEDOM. 



Straight freedom Yankees boast they've got 
More in a bunch than all the earth, 

Fresh off the griddle, sizzin' hot. 

Here freedom gives yer money's worth. 

Suppose we stop en think a spell. 

Who is the man that's hully free? 
I never saw him, you may tell — 

It shorely isn't you or me. 

It isn't me, because I print 

A pesky, little, one-hoss journal. 

And things there are I dasn't hint 
That's happenin' here diurnal. 



72 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Our preacher is an A-i man, 

But he steers very slow en keerful, 

Far savin' sinners his best plan 
Is keepin' em all feelin' cheerful. 

Old Deacon Bird may grind the poor 

Because he's rich, aod sHrewd, and mean; 

His sins the parson must endure. 
And scrub some lesser sinner clean. 

The teacher ain't exactly free, 

He don't whip my boy, that is plain. 

I run a paper, don't yeh see? 

Some other youngster takes the cane. 

The dry-goods man must have a rule 
Of action that will make him free. 

That hypocrite is not a fool. 
With customers he will agree. 

And politicians start in right. 

Sincere in mind, with purpose hearty, 

But few OV 'em e'er win their fight, 
Fer honesty would *'hurt the party." 

En so it runs, blow cold, blow hot, 

There's something ties each freeman's tongue. 
En real freedom none hev got, 

Save fools, en folks still very young. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 73 



THE FLIP-FLOP WAIST. 



With Apologies to R. W. C, by Z-n. 



Sez Widdy O'Ryan to Biddy O'Brien, 
"I see ye wor buyin' 
A fash'nable waist; 

Do yez think it dashin' 
To blow all yer cash in 
For thot oogly bag, 

Bekase it's the fashion." 
Simi-choorus be the CorpWal. 
Flip-flop, 
Flip-flop, 
It luks as if somethin' was ready to dhrop; 
Flip-flop, 
Wig-wag, 
It ha-angs on her front loike an ould jilly-bag! 

Sez Widdy O'Ryan to Biddy O'Brien, 
''It raly is thryin' 
Me timper too much ; 



74 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Me feelings is hurrted, 
Be min it's asserted 
YeVe all out o' shaape, 

Yer busht is inverted." 

Raymaarks av the Corp'ral. 

Flip-flop, 

Flip-flop, 

On the cyar, in the sthreet, at the church or the shop, 

Flip-flop, 

Wig-wag, 

Her front illevation seems downward to dhrag! 

Sez Widdy O'Ryan to Biddy O'Brien, 
"Now, honest, no lyin', 
Oi'll tell yez the truth, . 

Shure yer bilt is misplaced, 
For in front 'tis at laste 
Three inches below 

The loine av yer waist." 
Aycho be the Corp'ral. 
Flip-flop, 
Flip-flop, 
That slouchy shirt-wa-aste, wid the bottom on top ; 
Flip-flop, 
Wig-wag, 
It luks loike the shaape of an Eskimo bag ! 

Sez Widdy O'Ryan to Biddy O'Brien, 
"The b'yes is all guyin' 
Yez, Biddy, machree; 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 75 

An' wan gint thot I know 
Yez wud loike for a beau 
Obserruved, 'Thot luks 
Mosht daycidedly low/ " 
Rayinfoorcemints be the CorpWah 
Flip-flop, 
Flip-flop, 
It dhroops loike a grane-goose's overfull crop; 
Flip-flop, 
Wig-wag, 
It shways loike a loafer whin undher a jagl 

Sez Widdy O'Ryan to Biddy O'Brien, 
Who nearly was cryin' 
Wid sha-ame and disgusht, 

"Begob, Oi wor jokin', 
For be thot same token, 
I wear 'em meself, 

It IS fun Oi wor pokin'." 
Raygrits av the CorpWal. 
Flip-flop, 
FMp-flop, 
Whoile fa-ashion decrays it must limberly lop, 
Flip-flop, 
Wig-wag, 
The whole of my muschular system will flag ! 



76 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 



OLD KING COAL. 



Our Old King Coal is a jolly old soul, 

At fifteen dollars to the ton. 
He calls for his pipe, and he calls for his bowl, 

And he loads up his Scripter gun. 

Says Old King Coal : "I'm a pious old soul, 

Of Heaven Fm the chosen one, 
So bring me my pipe, and mark up coal 

To twenty round dollars on the ton." 

^'Ho! fiddle me a tune to the merry, merry strike." 
Says the saintly anointed King Coal. 

"The earth is my pawn, I will do as I like, 
For Me and God are partners in coal." 

"I'm a king with the cash for a universitee — 
Ho, marker, make it thirty on the ton — 

The lesson to be taught is : Me and God agree 
In a partnership where I am No. i. 



POMES ON LITTE'RY SUBJECTS 



* ' Conventionality is the croivned King of 
mediocrity; only the beggar and the 
genius disregard fashion,'* 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 79 



WRITING SOME VERST. 



Which is a pree-face to these pomes, done in 
Potoky, Indianny. 



Some di'lect pomes I mean to write, 
In tongue no mortal dares to speak; 

The magazines kin git it right, 

Though I would sooner tackle Greek. 

But then there's more in apple pies 
Than sour pippins en plain dough ; 

En wordsmiths all, ez I surmise, 

Hev kinds of knowledge you don't know. 

And when they're writin' ov their sonnets, 
It's plain enough they paint the rose, 

Jest ez the flowers on spring bonnets 
Outshine the spot the vi'let knows. 

The di'lect ov them magazines 

Is "litte'ry," en it's fetchin'. 
It stumps me, though, fer what it means ; 

The sense ain't alluz ketchin'. 



80 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

With "tork," en "dorg," en "yep," en "nope," 

En "grubpile," en "rekiver," 
They'll build a langwige, give 'em rope, 

They make but don't "diskiver." 

We don't say "hadn't otter went;'* 

We've grammars in Potoky; 
It ain't no phrase fer eny gent; 

We're not so tarnal poky. 

But then ye've gotter know the style, 

In print ez well ez dresses ; 
I'll miss the grammar forty mile, 

To ketch them litte'ry presses. 

"Heart intrust," that they say's the stuff 

'At hits the thinkin' masses ; 
They take no stock in solum bluff 

Ov egophistical asses. 

"Heart intrust," waal, I'll work it strong. 

In ways insinuatin', 
En villains, too — whar they belong — 

Will drop in ruinatin'. 

Leastwise they ort, so Uncle Josh 
Kin swoop right down upon 'em, 

En throw 'em out en cry : "By gosh ! 
I've fixed 'em now, dog-on 'em !" 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 81 

"Bad men^' — my pomes'U have them, too, 

Imposin' hard on decent peepul, 
Entil some man who's all true blue 

Will kick 'em o'er a handy steeple. 

Now them's my senterments, en more, 

I'll do my level best to fit 'em. 
En if yeh ain't too sufferin' pore, 

Jest raise the needful dust en git 'em. 



SPRING— ER MY ACCEPTED POEM. 



Once I wrote a breezy song, 
En it wuzn't very long, 

En I named my little poem jest "Spring." 
With the smellin' ov the flowers, 
En the peltin' ov the showers, 

I reckonM 'at the name was quite the thing. 

In it lambkins gamboled, too, 
There was clover, there was doo, 

En lovers sighed and rambled by the mile. 
A lark — I tried to find 'im — 
Once the poets all did mind 'im — 

Till I read 'at larks were huUy out o' style. 

Apple trees were in it bloomin*, 
En the mill race was a fumin'. 



82 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

En the neighbors said my poem was inspirin'. 
So I polished it, demoHshed it, 
Aligned it and relined it. 

Till our schoolma'am thought it 'minded her o' 
Byron. 

Then I sent it to New York, 
Where the busy poets work, 

Ez I'm hearin', by the lay er by the day. 
Dear me, I wuz elated! 
My ideas were inflated! 

En I hope FU never suffer more that way. 

But my little song kem back. 
So I kep' it on the track, 

Till it traveled over many, many stages. 
Seven years 'twas oscillatin'. 
Like a pendulum vibratin', 

When an editor, oh, wonder ! took fancy to its 
pages. 

My millwheel long is rotten, 
My birds are dead, all shotten, 

En my lambkins long ago were in the stew. 
But in seven years they'll print it. 
Or at least I hear 'em hint it. 

En I'll hev another poem for nineteen twenty- 
two. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 83 



WRITIN' A HYSTERICAL NOVEL. 



Sez Wottikindu to Jobolee Rax: 

''Come, write me a novel, for business is lax." 

Sez Jobolee Rax to Wottikindu; 

''My forty is poetry, soulful in hue." 

"Come, write me a novel. I think we'll agree. 
Can you have it next Thursday at half after 

three ?" 
But the Jobolee thus : "Tis a fact I lament. 
My knowledge of Hist'ry is not worth a cent." 

"Oh, that matters not, so yeh do nothin' rash. 

Just mix up a tale for the Woolly Gogash. 

ril loan yeh the books, an' to-morrow you'll read 

'em, 
For color — for facts — ^ha! Yeh never 'ill need 

'em. 

"I'll give yeh till Saturday, half after two." 
En away rushed the Editor, Wottikindu. 
In the "litte'ry notes" ov next day wuz a hint 
That a book long preparin' was ready to print. 

A book by the soulful en foozelly Rax, 
A novel Hysterical based on the fax. 



84 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

It was read by the Yape, who was melted to tears, 
En the Gogash pronounced it *'the best thing in 
years/' 



THE JOBOLEE RAX EN THE WOOLLY 
GOGASH. 



'Nihil fit. Let him fight.'' Artemus Ward, 



The Tackettyhack and the Rimettygog 
Are alHes in boostin', er rolHn' a log, 

Subduin' en ravagin' ''Litera-toor," 
At dialect playin' like boys at leap-frog. 

A singer akin is the glib Sontaree, 
Ez skittish a songster as ever ye'd see. 

En all OV 'em yirpin en chirpin' in verse. 
To the Woolly Gogash 'neath the Ginko tree. 

Ho! a blitherin' birdie is Jobolee Rax — 

He is known by his soulful en foozelly tracks — 

A sad woozy bird ov astonishin' lay; 
He sings in the gardens ov Bally-po-naks. 

There is Giant Golightly, er Wottikindu, 
Regard 'im with care, en I pray gardy-voo, 

Which is French fer "look-out," he's the Editor 
Man, 
Who created himself en the Gogashes too. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 85 

His Jobolees sing in the Gogash's ears, 

And the Yape ov the desert is melted to tears, 

When the Wottikindu starts a river of ink, 
To the rhythm en blythm ov g(j)ay gondoHers. 

In fragrant rose gardens no more you may see 
The sad Nightingale or the lively **Cherwhee." 

By the murmuring fountains ov Bally-po-naks, 
The Gogash is charmed by the Jobolee Rax. 



THE SPINKS AND THE REVIEWER. 



I met with the critter they call the Spinks, 
A beast that's ez strange ez the Omithirinks, 

I met her one day in the Rush Creek Mash; 
I found her ez wise en ez sly ez a lynx. 

She gives yeh a riddle en waits a spell ; 

She cracks all yer bones if yeh don't riddle well. 

I tuk the lead, en sez I : ''Wot's a critic T' 
The Spinks, with a scowl, jest uttered a yell. 

I saw 'at she hed me, I knew by her look. 

"A critic^s a person 'at skims through yer book — 

Liver and bile, ho ! riddle me this — 
And the actual critic, that is his cook." 

The Spinks with a sneer sez : "Give me a newer.'' 
En this is the query I popt right to her, 



86 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Fer I wuz afraid 'at the jig wuz up, 
Madam Spinks, if yeh please: **Wot is a Re- 
viewer ?" 

My arrow hed hit, fer I pray'd God speed it, 
Sez she: "Sich a case ez that I won't plead it.". 
But quicker 'an powder she up and blurts out : 
"He judges a book without deigning to read it." 

In her eye was a menacing look of insistence. 

The Spinks beats 'em all fer pig-headed persist- 
ence. 
So I fired another, the monster fell dead, 

'Twas this: *'Wot's the use o' the critter's exist- 
ence?" 



TO HORACE. 



Mic. 



Oh, Horace, how I envy you yer luck! 

You wrote plain Latin, and it really seems 

No dialect hed riz to hant your dreams — 
En more, you hed a market for yer "truck." 
Fer rich Maecenas kem, en tuk a smoke, 

En drawed a check, en praised yer work. 

Yeh did not have to send it to New York, 
En git it back, when you hed gone plumb broke. 




"Fer rich Maecenas kem, en tuk a smoke, 
En drawed a check, en praised yer work." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 87 

En in his villar were no loaded dice, 

There fountains played en oleanders growed. 

You smoked Havanners, "Samian'' on ice 

Did cool yer whistle when the south wind blowed. 

En lovely nymphs danced in the marble hall. 

Oh, we're not in it, Horace, now at all ! 



TO JOBOLEE RAX. 



Ayac mopotzin. 



Sage Job. O. Lee, whose pen name is plain *'Rax," 
One thing to me I pray you now confide. 
To break into the magazines IVe tried. 

Why do I get the ''dead man's hand?" What lacks? 

IVe tried ''heart intrust" but it's all the same. 
Your soulful, foozy poetry still goes. 
The commys ov T. Hack bloom like the rose — 

Wot is the secret ov the litte'ry game ? 

If I hed seen the real Phoenix bird. 

En writ it up with kodak, oh, dear "Rax," 

(It comes but once in full five hundred years), 

The editors would all "regret," dread word. 

En say I hampered them with paltry fax. 

But you could do it en allay their fears. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 



A CRITICS OPINION OV "HOW RASTUS 
HELD THE BRIDGE." 



"How Rastus Held the Bridge'' I sent 

Clear to Manhattan town; 
To git the views, wuz my intent, 

Ov litte'ry lights ov some renown. 

"A litte'ry agent'' — that's the place — 
Where I bestowed my martial verse. 

En that man — well, he hed the face 
To say he'd never read none worse. 

He thought the di'lect hadn't quite 
Enufif ov commys, en fool words — 

En heroes never fit at night — 
I otter sung ov flow'rs en birds. 

He said I tromped upon the toes 
Ov one 'at he calls "Bab" McCoUey, 

En plague-er-ized, en up en shows 
'At I'm repeatin', like a polly. 

McColley's piece I've seen en read, 
In "Pomes yeh otter know by line," 

En how Horatius piled the dead — 
I 'low the pome is real fine. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 89 

That litte'ry agent is a jack; 

He knows the ways ov birds en flowers! 
Why, real heroes hew and hack, 

When feeHn' right, with no set hours ! 

A Htte'ry agent, he kin tell 

The way to win out in a book. 
But next time Tve a litte'ry spell 

I'll read my poem to the cook. 



TO GUTENBERG. 



Upon the seashore lay a sealed urn. 

Oh, Gutenberg, the "Genius" in that vase, 

You thought was Truth, so fair her lovely face, 
But scarce released, the jade plain truth did spurn. 
Gang printing press, of progress hailed the light! 

Go spread your fictions by the dreary mile ; 

At "yellow features" let the millions smile; 
Revive old jokes ; set scandals in our sight ; 
Let lies pour forth, a swift, unfailing stream. 

Your turbid "slimes" still bear some grains of gold. 
One in ten thousand may discern their gleam, 

Who dares the quest, as Jason did of old. 
And that lone one the myriad may save; 
God guide his bark, tossed on your inky wave. 



90 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

TO THE AMALGAMATED DFLECT 
FORGERS' UNION. 



Amalgamated Di'lect Forgers, hear, 

And heed my plea : Tis justice I demand. 

Fer better poetry I boldly stand. 

*'Scabs" are at work, the proofs are very clear. 

Men writin' are who commys disregard. 

Who cut on prices en do thereby cozen 

Their fellow scribes, with thirteen pomes the dozen. 

En boast their spellings ezy stid ov hard. 

Sich men debase our noble lit'ratoor. 

En by their conduct do disgrace their trade. 

While heartless editors would buy en sell 

Genius in open mart becoz we're poor, 

Ov brass make that which onct of gold was made. 

Go, purge the temple, for things seem not well. 



THE NEW FABLE OF THE GOAT ON THE 
SHED. 



There's a fable of a goat 
That climbed upon a shed 

And insulted braver animals 
Whose path in that way led. 

WeVe a Capricornus Willie 
Who is perched up in a nooK 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 91 

To fire inky pellets 
At a man or at a book. 

If you chance to spy his whiskers. 

He will beat a quick retreat. 
And fire paper pellets 

At his victims in the street. 



MY LOVE AND THE WRAITH BUD. 



Thousand-Dollar Prize Poem by Jobolee Rax, as 
Printed in 'The Ladies' Evening Ghost." 



Nax tekki po bal in loon. 



It befell when the opal was cold. 
And the Nadir was growing old, 
That I walked by the whing of the sea. 
And my own love walked with me. 

And I heard the Yugoo yip 
That my love was all distraught, 

Her eye was glass and ice her lip, 
And she murmured : "The opal ought.'* 

Sadder, indeed, to walk alone, 
Where the whing of the sea lies prone. 
For the opal's eye is turned to cloud, 
And the Nadir lies in his icy shroud. 



92 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Why and myself are one, 
Wraith Bud, go wed the sea. 

Oh would the Yugoo's yip were done. 
It parted my love from me. 

My own love walks in a dream, 
Lured by the Wraith Bud's gleam. 
Distraught she walks. Ah, woe is me! 
I am alone by the whing of the sea. 

Ice is the opal's iire ! 
Nadir, I envy thee. 

Wraith Bud, thy charm is dire, 
It parted my love from me. 



AUNT LUCINDY'S REJECTED POME. 



My Aunt Lucindy wrote a pome. 

En mailed it to the Sentry ; 
Next week by post it traveled home ; 

It failed to make an entry. 

Our critics all pronounced the verse 
To be good grammar en good sense. 

The magerzines hev printed worse, 
En called their doggerel intense. 

I otter say Aunt hed no loss, 
The old maid hez no man 'at's buried. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 93 

I'll pick some stanzys at a toss, 
To show her style, so varied. 

SOME STANZYS OF AUNT 'cINDY's POME. 



Oh! Dearie, why have you gone up to the sky? 
Your chair it is vacant, I'm lonesome, oh my ! 
In the morning I miss you, at evening I sit 
Alone in the gloaming ; oh ! why did you quit ? 

Your pipe's on the shelf and your shoes in the hall, 
And, Dear, in the twilight I hear your voice call 
For the late county paper and slippers all hot. 
In my mind I still see them arranged on the spot. 

And sadly I sit on a Sund'y afternoon 
'Neath the elm by your grave. I am sad as a loon. 
I hear **After the Bair' and you press my hand ; 
I see but the tombstone that sags in the sand. 



TELL ME, WHO IS VILLAIN L? 



Tell me, who is villain L? 

"Bad men" all I thought I knew; 
River towns is where they dwell. 

Someone surely hez the clew. 

Wot's the game ov villain L? 
Ez a joke he'll never do. 



94 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

I suspect that villain L 

Hez a scheme he's puttin' through — 
Mebbe he's another sell. 

Spring the ^%ag" with nary clew : 

Tell me, who is villain L? 
Answer is: "It's up to you." 

Write the papers! They won't tell — 
Call you "Rube" en laugh, they do. 
Laugh at you en villain L. 



Guess the thing is pretty new; 

Think I'll write Professor Snell; 
He will surely have the clew. 

What the gold-brick man would sell, 

Or the green goods fakir do, 
Don't skeer me, I know them well. 
Tell me, who is villain L? 



STATISTICS OF POETRY. 



"Statistician" will tell to a week 
How long it would take a canary 

To bring us the moon in his beak, 
And scatter it over the prairie. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 95 

And he figgers it out that a smoker 
Will burn up five thousand in vice. 

If nothing were spent, says this joker, 
The income of all would suffice. 

The chief end of man is to eat, 
Spite of poets, from Homer to me ; 

Before him the question was meat. 
And now it's the same, we'll agree. 

IVe been figgerin' the poetry out, 

For a matter of three thousand years — 

Prosaical dunces, don't flout — 

'Tis the size ov Pike's Peak it appears. 

And if it were prudent to use it, 

A million of readers you'd need; 
In night and day shifts to peruse it, 

A million of years they would read. 

And were it a case of ''regretting," 

Or "puffing" of editors wise, 
Ten millions were fuming and fretting. 

Concocting conventional lies. 

In a million of years to a day, 

They would finish their "critical" screed. 
And the publishers ready to pay, 

A million red coppers would need. 



96 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 



NONSENSE RHYMES. 



A nonsense rhyme is a fizz 
Of wit or humor or quiz. 

Five lines for the whole — 

Theme, body and soul, 
To go with a snap and a sizz. 

There's a pig that escapes from his sty. 
He '^roots'' everything under the sky; 

At the window two seats, 

At the table four meats. 
And at picnics all kinds of pie. 

Freak, "cut the wrong way of the leather"- 
Your head is as light as a feather. 
And all men are "cranks" 
Who don't humor your pranks, 
When you set yourself up as "bell wether." 

"Let me sing the songs of a nation, 
ril give you the rest of creation." 

Agreed! Go ahead with your notes. 

Let me do the counting of votes. 
And ril be the "Boss" of the nation. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 97 

Sweet Sixteen Marie of Oshkosh 
Was full of queer 'longin's'' and bosh, 

So she wrote her a book, 

And my ! how it took ! 
For it wasn't quite proper — her slosh. 

An innocent man bit a pickle. 

The juice squirted out and did tickle 

Another man's eye, 

And he let his fist fly. 
It's risky to bite in a pickle. 

A diary none should indite, 
There is danger it may see the light, 
And author, divorcee or *'sport" 
May see the book opened in court. 
Try a "slate'* and you may hit it right. 

It is joy that the Optimist suffers. 

While the Pessimist says we're poor "duffers." 

But give us the "slot," 

Without it life's not 
Worth a pair of old brass candle snuffers. 

I've not read a book in ten years; 
I haven't the time, it appears, 

With the vaudeville show 

And the game of pedro. 
And the gardens where men quaff their beers, 



98 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

They call me the fiend of fresh air. 
When I throw up a window they stare. 

When it's way down to zero, 

I'm warm as a Nero, 
And I empty the room then and there. 

Don't call this a traveler's "flam," 
There's a plant in the shape of a lamb. 
It grows on a stalk, 
But the creature can't walk, 
No chops can you cut from that lamb. 

I beg you don't buy a volcano. 
It is better to own a nice plain, oh ! 

It sputters and toots. 

It coughs and it shoots. 
It's a nervous concern, a volcano. 



POMES OV HEROISM 
IN THE OLD STYLE 



''Glory IS the arch enchantress of all, 
since she has j^ersuaded the people not 
only to carry her burden, but to allozu 
her to mount on tof of it; and, marvel 
of marvels, it gives them joy y 

I.. 0: ,>. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL 101 



HOW RASTUS HELD THE BRIDGE. 



After McColley. 



Sing OV the Romans, sing of kings, in strophied 
martial story, 

I'll tell how Rastus held the bridge and won a 
crown of glory. 

The county seat wuz voted on; it caused us much 
anxiety — 

Rock Creek en Mudsock stuffed the polls with reck- 
less impropriety. 

Potoky up en filed a bill; the judge fer us decided. 
We hed bonfires en hurrah, the Rock Creek folks 

derided. 
En sneered : ''It isn't settled quite, because Potoky 

cast us ; 
We're in the race to win or bust ; there's few 'at ever 
passed us." 

Our Rastus Coe stood six feet high, with sinoos like 

a steer, 
En Rastus wuz a stranger to the mood 'at men call 

fear. 



102 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

That night we set 'im on the watch, down at the 

county bridge, 
We heard Rock Creek wuz comin' on with "braves'* 

from Hick'ry Ridge. 

En Rastus, fer the war's alarm, a shotgun wuz to 

fire; 
En on the watch, our Odditer was in the Baptis' 

spire. 
At signal, all Potoky's men would rush the bridge 

a swarmin'. 
We reckoned we could give Rock Creek a purty 

lively warmin'. 

The Rock Creek set was brave but slow. We 
called 'em the "O'Golleys," 

Becoz they ''goshed" and ''golley'd" round ez fool- 
ish ez some pollies. 

The most ov 'em wuz six feet high, en one ov 'em 
wuz seven^ 

En in a wrestle they could down the Mudsock 
"Husky 'leven." 

Now Rastus hied him to the woods en cut a 

hick'ry pole. 
En roasted it to whalebone stuff 'at bent up in a 

roll. 
He tuk that flail, he tuk his gun, en went down to 

the bridge, 
En lit his pipe, en waited fer Rock Creek en 

Hick'ry Ridge. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 103 

We didn't know quite all 'is plans; we wouldn't 

let 'im done it, 
To fight that battle all alone — ^but Rastus fit en 

won it. 
Oh! sad to state, truth must be told! Our hero 

Rastus slept. 
En in the dark the wily foe like Injuns on 'im 

crept. 

They seized his shotgun with a whoop enough to 

make yeh shiver, 
En tossed his arsenal on high; it lit down in the 

river. 
But Rastus riz en kep' his wits; he let a piercin' 

yell, 

He hoped the Odditer 'ud hear en ring that Baptis' 
bell. 

The Odditer, I'm grieved to state, left Rastus in 

the lurch. 
He went to sleep, I 'low becoz he roosted in a 

church. 
'Tress on, my men!" shouts Cross-eyed Bob, who 

led the Rock Creek gang; 
'Tress on the thickest where yeh hear my good 

corn-cutter's clang." 

For these unrighteous men they bore corn-cutters 

bright en new, 
A weepon rare! I crave a word explainin' it to 

you. 



104 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

The Cubans hev a sword, I hear, 'at they call a 

machayty, 
The two are one, I ruther guess; they're weepons 

grim en weighty. 

En on that bridge they're throngin' fast, hurrahin' 

fer Rock Creek. 
"Press on! the archives! On! ye whelps! Now 

give it to 'em quick." 
The tide ov battle surged en ebbed, en falchions 

flashed in air, 
Leastwise they clanged en would 'a' flashed hed 

eny light been there. 

'Twas at the bridge end next the mill, where battle 

highest rose. 
En there the Rock Creek cohorts sunk before their 

doughty foes. 
'Tress on! press on!" the Hoosier meets the 

Hoosier on this night, 
"On ! Rock Crick, on !" roared cross-eyed Bob, "the 

court house is in sight." 

They crowd the bridge, Potoky's force fell back 

about half way; 
From Rock Creek riz exultant yells; they thought 

they'd won the day. 
With wild huzza and ribald jest, revenges deep 

they plight. 
But Rastus, with a splittin' roar, vowed he would 

stay all night 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 105 

En hold that kivered bridge until some other place 

froze over; 
I dasn't name it, but they say its tenants ain't in 

clover. 
'Tress on, ye Snukes,'' in trumpet tones cried 

Bob, ^'they're on the run." 
The Rock Creek men they didn't know 'at all their 

foes wuz one, 

Fer Rastus Coe had swung that flail, en every blow 

made good. 
The Rock Creek *^Snukes" in vain they tried to 

hack him v/here he stood. 
Swing falchion en swing flail on high! oh heavy 

blows assail ye! 
Go, Cross-eyed Bob, en say a prayer, yer war cries 

nought avail ye. 

Not any dead, but sore each head that was so 

soundly thwacked. 
Fer once en all, Potoky's foes were done fer en 

sidetracked. 
Oh, mournin' women ov Rock Creek, ye'll need no 

priests to shrive. 
By spreadin' plasters on sore heads let Hoosier 

doctors thrive. 

Ras. Coe hez saved a trophy yet — he found it on the 

bridge — 
A falchion that he keeps to show Rock Creek en 

Hick'ry Ridge. 



106 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

And so I've set this battle down to ring in song an' 

story, 
To tell how Rastus held the bridge, all fer Potoky/s 

glory. 



THE RESCOO OV LITTLE TILL. 



When I was jest a gawky boy I heerd o' Mudsock 

Bill, 
Who rescooed from a wat'ry grave my little sister 

Till. 
The flour bar'I wuz gittin' low en Pap he'd gone to 

town, 
To take a grist, en Tillle went to buy a calico 

gown. 

Now Mudsock is a little place, no town like our 
Potoky, 

In Spring the mud is axle deep en then the place is 
poky. 

And Pap was settin^ there at ease a gassin' like cre- 
ation, 

With that ole dusty miller, 'bout the consams ov 
the nation. 

Jim Fisher then put in his spoon, about the tamal 

tariff, 
En, settlin' that, they next tuk up who'd be elected 

sheriff. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 107 

En Mudsock Bill drapt in there too, a husky lookin' 

cuss, 
Ov no account fer anything but mixin' in a muss. 

So there they sot, en gassed away, until the grist 

wuz done^ 
When all to once Pap noticed it wuz nigh to settin' 

sun. 
But Tillie wuzn't there becoz the gal wuz busy 

shoppin' ; 
Then Pap got riled, en when he's mad, folks reckon 

he is hoppin'. 

He never scolds but thinks a lot ; he clomb into the 

waggin. 
En muttered that it wuz no time fer folks to be a 

laggin'. 
Now little Till was pricin' ov spring bunnets in 

the store. 
But when she caught Pap's eye, I guess she didn't 

shop no more. 

She clomb into that waggin quick, they went off 

like a rocket. 
En Pap just yanked the ole *'black snake" out ov 

its iron socket. 
Ole Dick would stand a tech o' whip, Sal wuz a 

blooded mare, 
En, when she felt it on her flank, the beast begun 

to rare. 



108 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Rock Creek wuz full, bank high, en truck adown 

the stream was shootin'. 
Sal bolted, en right down the bank, they went a 

scally hootin'. 
Pap cried: *'My God,'' en yanked the lines; the 

sorrel him defied ; 
En Pap en Dick en Till en Sal were plunged into 

the tide. 

It wuz an awful moment that; Pap thought his 

time hed come. 
En then he thought of Mother en tts waitin' him 

at hum. 
Poor Tillie gin a fearful scream, enuff to split the 

skies, 
En then she went kerplunk, right down in water 

to the eyes. 

Pap's mouth was full of yaller mud, his wits hed 

seemed to fail, 
Entil he up en grabbed ole Dick, fast by his 

streamin' tail. 
Dick wuz a fam'ly hoss en hed a plenty ov hoss 

sense. 
He swum ez stiddy ez a whale en steered the hull 

kit hence. 

He landed them, all safe en sound, except the grist 

wuz spiled; 
En that fool sorrel mare jest stood ez if she'd ne'er 

ben riled. 




'Entil he up en grabbed ole Dick, fast by his streamin tail.' 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 109 

But Pap wuz plumb beside hisself with horror en 

with pain; 
It tuck three men to hold 'im down from jumpin' 

in again. 

'^Oh Tillie, Tillie, where are you?'' he cried in 

axense wild. 
"Oh lemme go ! Oh lemme go, to save my drownin' 

child." 
Then Mudsock Bill did give a dive from off the 

county bridge, 
En swum jest like a poppus on the Rock Creek's 

swellin' ridge. 

Three times hed Tillie sunk below the ragin' 

yellow wave, 
But Mudsock Bill wuz right in time our Httle Till 

to save. 
He tuk a reef in her back hair, that waved like any 

fern, 
Ez luck would have, 'twas real hair; our Tillie's 

hair is hern. 

He landed her upon the bank, they both wuz sop- 
pin' wet. 

The people yelled en cheered en cried: "Oh, Bill's 
a brick you bet." 

Pap grabbed him by the hand en cried : "Oh, Bill, 
yeh saved my child !" 

But Bill a quiet hero wuz whose langwige ne'er 
run wild. 



110 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

He only said : ''Dod blast it all ! D'ye take me fer 

a gump, 
When g-als air drowndin' in the creek to stan' 

round like a stump ?'' 
En fifty plus a hundred wuz our little Tillie's heft ; 
'Twas well Bill wuz a husky man; a small man 

hed got left. 

En mute our Tillie homeward rid, deep thinkin' all 

the way; 
But she hez not sot eyes upon her rescooer sence 

that day. 

REFLECTION. 

I own, with love, en weddin' bells, I otter see 'em 

through it. 
But Bill is such a wuthless sort I haint the heart to 

do it. 



SANDY MOSE, THE PILOT. 



Who was ^'sacked" by Jim Bludso's second cousin. 



The Mounting Boy, a gallant boat, 

Plied on Ohio's waters. 
About the fastest thing afloat. 

Her capting's name was Vawters. 

She tooted up, she tooted down. 
En made a run the quickest — 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 111 

South P'int to Cincinnaty town — 
When boats were runnin' thickest. 

Her capting wuz ez good a sort 

Ez is twixt here an' Gades, 
He swore he'd alluz be in port 

On time, er land in Hades. 

The capting, at that fatal hour, 

Havanners wuz a smokin' ; 
En Sandy Mose, he was a power 

At tellin' yarns en jokin'. 

En all to once the Fleetwood craft — 

The newest on the river — 
Hed stole a march, was right abaft; 

It made the capting shiver. 

He cussed the pilot en the crew, 

He cussed the second mate; 
His observations, stric'ly true, 

Ain't fit, jest here, to state. 

He cussed the stoker: "Chuck it in." 

The smoke en flame riz higher, 
En kags o' lard — he heaved them in. 

Till riz the cry ov "Fire." 

The capting bravely held the deck, 
While weamin sobbed en wailed, 



112 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

En Mose allowed theyM strand the wreck 
Unless the injines failed. 

The pilot flunked and jumpt down souse, 
Jest like a stone, to rise no more. 

Then Mose clomb in the pilot house 
En grabbed the wheel en gently swore. 

Mose hed been pilot at Mobile; 

The capting calmed the v/eamin, 
En Mose he stiddied up the wheel, 

The flames around 'im streamin'. 

The Mounting Boy struck on the bar, 
They 'scaped that funeral pyre, 

En like a stacher Mose stood thar, 
The flames a roarin' higher. 

They buried Mose at Moscow town, 
A muniment to him they planned, 

A wheel with flames, en waves adown. 
Jest like that wheel 'at Mose had manned. 



ZE WRECK OV ZE HOOSIER BELLE. 



I read me once in leetle book ov verse 

Ov batteau gone to wreck, "La Julie Plante;" 
An' Meester Drummon' make a fine rehearse 

Ov trageek tale, more fine as zis, I grant. 



'POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 113 

No need you go clear up on Caniaw, 

For skow or sailor man; ze Wabash she 

Have one beeg skow boat for ze bricks to draw, 
Zc Hoosier Belle, her captaine's name McKee. 

She ride ze wave one night ov June, la belle, 
Ze captaine pipe will smoke in sleeves of shirt, 

Ze waves make music an' ze sailors tell 

Ov joke an' fun ; ze pump make water spurt. 

Dat skow, ze Hoosier Belle, she hold of brik 
One pile so beeg* ze men deeg tree month clay. 

At place not far remove from Sulphur Lick, 
She hold ze quarteer meehon brik, zey say. 

Zat Hoosier Belle she look so magnifeek, 
But steer by pole, an' pilot name ov Flinn, 

Bound for New Orleans cleared from Sulphur Lick, 
Down on ze Wabash, trouble it begin. 

One hurry cane come on to blow, blow, blow, 
Ze ragin' Wabash wite wiz foam is drest. 

Gran' lightnin's flash, ze clouds by scuddin' go, 
Ze cook's small galley, she go galley west. 

McKee, her captaine, dam ze sailor men, 

Ze lightnin' flash, flash, flash, ze tunders roar. 

Terriebel fracas! an' ze captaine den 

Cries out so kweek: "She's goin' on ze shore." 



114 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Sam Flinn heave on ze weel, I mean ze pole. 

Helas! Zat batteau hit ze great beeg snag, 
An' Sam goes by ze board. God save hees soul! 

Vair much for Sam ze Wabash eet is drag. 

Ze captaine, bon homme gallant Jean McKee, 
Strive giant hard to put her by ze helm. 

Zat batteau stick like bark on one beech tree, 
I see not wy, ze snag was slippery elm. 

Wiz win' sou-wes' an' current wiz de sun, 
McKee will yank vair hard hees helm aport. 

Helas! ze Hoosier Belle, her race has run. 

An' tempest blow to make ze skow for sport. 

Oh ! woe my tale ! ze cargo fall to break one laig 
Right off poor gallant captaine, Jean McKee. 

Ze crew a vair big paneek get ; zey beg 
To warp ze hawzer roun' one hickory tree. 

Ze captaine's laig was pain to heem vair keen ; 

Ze Hoosier Belle, helas! zey cannot save; 
Ze lightnin' flash, flash, flash, ze tunder 'tween, 

An' Captaine Jean finds heem one wat'ry grave. 

DEDUCTION^ OR ZE MORAL. 

Ze moral in zis tale ov woe vair plain 
Eez zis : Eef you work in ze yard ov brik, 

Stay, deeg ze clay ; sail not ze ragin main. 
Stay, smoke ze pipe of peace on Sulphur Lick. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 115 



THE RUNCOUNTER AT RISIN' SUN. 



Twas in the '40's down at Risin' Sun — 
That great ''runcounter'' was a famous one. 
Then quarrelsome boatmen, seeking trouble, went. 
Or loafed in "groceries'' till their cash wuz spent. 

Out from Ohio come Alonzo Kyle 

To Risin' Sun, en guessed he'd stop awhile. 

He tasted licker, but wuz never drunk, 

En 'peared so mild, some 'lowed he hed no spunk. 

A river bully, known ez Natchee Joe, 

Hed fit the river fur ez steamboats go. 

He wuz ez bad a man ez you would see. 

His weight one eighty and his height six three. 

En Joe delighted, if some rare greenhorn. 
Would cross 'im ; then he'd play his lofty scorn, 
En hev a fight — he thought it rattlin' fun — 
En start to "clean the place out" on the run. 

A little "grocery," kept by Andy Doyle, 
Hed been the scene ov many a drunken broil, 
And there it happened that Alonzo Kyle 
Hed stopped to licker en to rest awhile. 



116 POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 

Alonzo shorely wuz a foolish one, 
Fer ''bad men'' owned the town ov Risin' Sun. 
His dram the man hed skurcely time to stow, 
When in drapt other, en among 'em Joe. 

En Andy sez politely: ''Natchee Joe, 

How's everything?" ''Waal, Andy, things is slow." 

A foolish feller from the hills put in : 

"These one-hoss river towns air slow ez sin." 

It made 'em start, fer every mother's son 
Knew then that ser'ous trouble hed begun. 
Joe paused en looked the feller in the eyes. 
"Ye're from the hills; en hill men alluz lies." 

Ez mad ez hop, the man sprung right at Joe ; 
With graceful swing the Natchee laid 'im low. 
Then Andy Doyle, who thought "one strike" 

enough, 
Sez: "Joe, hold on. That chap ain't up to snuff." 

Then Joe sez: "Let the fool apolergize, 
En not abuse the river 'fore my eyes." 
At first the other man profanely cust. 
Joe sez: "Apolergize er take the wust." 

They fixt it up. The man hed meant no slur. 
En Joe sez, cheerful : "Boys, I feel a burr 
A stickin' in my throat. Le*s licker up. 
It's full an hour sence I hed a sup." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 117 

They all lined up except Alonzo Kyle; 

Joe looked en says perem't'ry: "Come an' smile.*' 

Alonzo, quiet like, replies : ** 'Scuse me. 

I jest hed one, en too much don't agree." 

Joe stood a minnit paralyzed with rage. 
He looked ez fine ez tablows on the stage, 
Pap said 'twas grand to see him standin' there • 
So mad was Joe at first he couldn't swear. 

Kyle first got red, then pale, at Joe's abuse. 
But sez: *'I never quarrel, wot's the use?" 
Joe called 'im coward; dared 'em one by one. 
En boasted he could lick all Risin' Sun. 

'Twas hard to take, the langwige that they heard. 
At last to Kyle Joe passed a foul-mouthed word, 
Then like a "painter" Lonz lit on Natchee 
En knocked him flat ez axmen fell a tree. 

Lithe ez a tiger, Joe springs to his feet. 
But Lonz wuz ready the attack to meet. 
En quick ez lightnin', on the bully's nose. 
He planted one en down the claret flows. 

But Joe wuz skillful, en his muscles steel ; 
He come back squar en made Alonzo reel ; 
And round they fit upsettin' all the chairs ; 
Joe's black with rage en like a pirate swears. 



118 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

They back en tack, en rush en harry, 
Take en receive, en thrust en parry, 
But neither one can gain a single inch. 
En neither dares to resk a final clinch. 

Now Natchee Joe hez blown himself with rage, 
While Lonzo Kyle is cool at ev'ry stage. 
En at the proper moment plants a blow 
That knocks Joe out en lays the bully low. 

The Natchee owns 'at he's been fairly beat. 
En 'lows the proper caper is to treat. 
They all line up, Alonzo takes a horn, 
Jest to "cement" the friendship newly bom. 

En Joe sez: ''Stranger, meanin' no offense, 
Whar did you larn yer style ov self defense?" 
En Kyle sez softly: ''I don't claim no skill. 
I worked in Pittsburg in a rollin' mill." 



MORAL. 

The moral which this simple tale instils 
Is, don't spend time in loafin' round gin mills. 
En if yeh do, don't put on eny ''frills" 
With river bullies 'bout yer native hills. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 119 



THE GREAT PIE CONTEST. 



Potoky vs. Mudsock. 



Men sing ov war, men sing ov love, but who will 

sing of Pie? 
Tis not on battlefields alone that men may do and 

die. 
Potoky in a contest once wreathed laurels round 

her fame; 
Twas Mudsock challenged us to try a queer pie- 

eatin' game. 

It stumped us fer awhile to find a man sich ez we ort, 

Fer ''Mudsock Bill" I 'low could eat a peck of ma- 
son's ''mort." 

All "double-deckers'- wuz the rule; no custards 
passed ez pies. 

The man ^at hid a dozen first would kerry off the 
prize. 

The raffle wuz a quarter shot, the prize a brawny 

mule. 
The cash to help a widder clothe her children fer 

the school. 
Potoky put a twenty up en did it in three days ; 
The Mudsock people found it hard a like amount 

to raise. 



120 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

Her "Mudsock BilF' she proudly named. "Ho, 

thar's a man to beat!" 
So after cipherin' round awhile we picked on 

"Pudgy Pete." 
Pete's waist wuz fifty inches 'round, his neck wuz 

neck ov bull, 
No one had ever seen him eat until he wuz quite 

full. 

The ballot wuz unanimous when onct we thought 
ov Pete, 

Becoz all Indianny hain't the likes ov him to eat. 

Fer second we decided that our man was Rastus 
Coe, 

En Mudsock picked a racin' man who wasn't reck- 
oned slow. 

To git a full two dozen pies, quite cleaned our 

bakery out. 
All foundry built, without a leak, en neatly crimped 

about. 
Timekeeper wuz the Odditer, en at the word to *'go," 
Pete grabbed an apple pie, en winked, en chucked 

it down below. 

The thing wuz done so mighty quick, they thought 

'twas sleight-o'-hand. 
En then some wranglin' was indulged. They 

couldn't understand. 




"The racin' man demanded to examine Peter's close : 

Pete stood up straight, en all wuz squar. (Pete's holler to his toes.)' 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 121 

The racin' man demanded to examine Peter's close ; 
Pete stood up straight, en all wuz squar. (Pete's 
holler to the toes.) 

It tuk two bites fer '^Mudsock Biir' to down that pie 

OV hisn. 
But he wuz gritty and remarked: **My appetite 

hez risen/' 
With that, he hid a pie so quick, it seemed to melt 

in air, 
En Rastus Coe felt ov his blouse to see 'at all wuz 

fair. 

So nip en tuck the pies went down afore them hun- 
gry sinners; 

Ye'd thought they'd never known what 'twas to 
hev good fillin' dinners. 

I otter say 'at Mudsock Bill, two days he'd been a 
fastin'. 

But 'Tudgy Pete" would not refrain; he eats so 
everlastin'. 

In war, in love, in pie games, too, fine strategy will 
tell, 

En Mudsock played a cunnin' trick that gin us all 
a spell. 

Last round, that racin' man rung in on Pete a "doc- 
tored" pie, 

Full OV boss liniment, I guess ; we thought our man 
would die. 



122 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

He turned ez white ez any sheet, he clutched his 

manly chist, 
En faintly gasped to Rastus Coe: "Quick, pound 

me with yer fist." 
But Rastus hed no time f er that, coz he'd a ^'speshuF' 

pie; 
A shoe vamp, fer the under crust, concealed therein 

did lie. 

With eager hand Bill snapt it up, the last one in 
the pile, 

En in the breach he drapt it, with a broad, triumph- 
ant smile. 

He gin one chew en then a gulp; he tried the pie 
to swaller; 

The apples en the juice went down, the shoe vamp 
wouldn't foller. 

Now Bill grew red ez eny beet en Pete wuz white 

ez chalk. 
Pete gulped his pie; hoss medicine could never 

make him balk. 
He downed it, en the cheers we gin, you'd thought 

we were all Hooligans, 
En from Bill's throat they pulled that vamp with 

Dr. Bradley's "pullagains." 

MORAL. 

The moral ov this foolish tale I skurce know how 
to write. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 123 

Unless it be, when pie looks wrong be keerful how 

yeh bite. 
En if a raffle yeh get up, to help some stricken 

widder. 
That cobblers air resourceful men, I beg you to 

consider. 



DID HE SAVE THE BAG? 



Ov all the mean sinners 
En penny-go winners 

Who make ov this world a delusion en snare, 
Ez fer ez I see, 
Jim Boswick 'ud be 

The cock-o'-the-walk, en so I declare. 

Uncle Abner wuz sick 
With measles so thick 

'At they crowded fer room, like the hairs on a cat ; 
Yeh ne'er seen the match — 
It wuz no use to scratch; 

Ab said : ''Git a brickbat and rub me with that.'' 

'Twas a very wet spell — 
My, how the rain fell! 

The creek wuz a boomin', en so wuz each rill. 
En, would yeh believe! 
Jim Boswick sent Steve, 

His chuckle-head boy, with a grist to the mill. . 



124 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 

It give us a skeer, 
But Steve didn't keer; 

He made fer the ford astride ov the bag. 
The ole critter stumbled 
En off her he tumbled. 

En floated away ez limp ez a rag. 

Then quick ez a flash, 
In spite ov his rash, 

Uncle Abner jumpt up, en out ov the door, 
Souse into the water. 
With splash en with splatter, 

A header he tuk, en he proberly swore. 

En he collared that boy, 
To mother's great joy. 

En landed 'im safe, ez limp ez a rag. 
Now, what dy ye say? 
Jim Boswick nex' day 

Rid over en asked us: ''Did Ab save the bag?'' 



THE REAL HERO. 



I think the bravest man is he 

Who makes of Truth his bosom friend. 
Although, In homely garments, she 

May seem to shame him in the end. 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 125 

And what is Truth? Go draw a line 
Between plain right and misty doubt, 

And quibble not on points too fine, 
For truth is not past finding out. 

In far-off skies, a nebula 

Is wrapt in silent mystery; 
Dispute not o'er Andromeda, 

Let wise men write her history. 

And all your duty, day by day, 
Is not laid off by square and rule; 

Your conscience marks the shortest way. 
Like needle pointing to the pole. 

To tell the truth may cost you fame, 
To act the truth may cost you wealth, 

But all the gifts in Fortune's name 

Repay not conscience robbed by stealth. 

If falsehood, for a season, gains, 

Let not disquiet fill your breast; 
Reward is set for honest pains. 

And honest toil is ever blest. 

And though your sun may seem to set 

Without illumining the West, 
A myriad stars may heaven fret 

With glory while you look and rest. 



126 POMES OV THE PEEPUL. 



WAS IT WORTH WHILE? 



No hay de que. 



After-face to Pomes ov the Peepul. 



I've finished up my Httle book; 

Was it worth while? 
In it the fool will never look. 

Was it worth while? 
I wrote this little book for fools. 

They're not worth while. 
For idiots waste their time in schools: 

At print they smile. 

A score of fools to one wise man 

Make up the crowd. 
'Twas ever so since time began — 

Don't speak it loud. 
I ought to be more circumspect, 

For fools have malice ; 
And me, perhaps, they may elect 

To drink the chalice. 

The world's revenges are most dread; 

'Tis fools who judge. 
'Twere better far if he were dead 

Who scorns their ^'fudge." 



POMES OV THE PEEPUL, 127 

The rack, the stake, the bloody knout, 

Have served the fool. 
He shouts whenever knave may shout. 

Or humbug rule. 

One hope sustains me as I pass 

By the tribune : 
The fool may take me for an ass ; 

ril bray his tune, 
ril saunter by assuming phlegm — 

Fools like a quack ; 
They^ll set me down as one of them, 

And spare my back. 

Perhaps they'll even laud my screed, 

And vote a crown. 
To prove I am a fool indeed, 

While wise men frown. 
Then let me, king of fools, be meek, 

For power is brief ; 
And Nemesis revenge will wreak, 

When I am chief. 



1904 













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